


Know When You've Been Beaten

by Breath4Soul



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (ಠ‿↼), (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ:･ﾟ✧, Autism Meltdown, Autism Spectrum, Boys Kissing, Caretaker John, Companionable Snark, Compassionate Lestrade, Confessions, Dark Past, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Drugged Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Inappropriate Erections, Irene did it, John Loves Sherlock, John Watson is a Saint, John is a Good Friend, John is a Very Good Doctor, John-centric, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mentioned Irene Adler, Neurodiversity, Protective John, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlocks sexual history, Sweet John, Sweet Sherlock, The Princess Bride References, Unresolved Sexual Tension, ♥‿♥
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:21:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>What began with a drugged and vulnerable Sherlock confessing some things about his sexual history and feelings towards John (after Irene Adler injected him and escaped), becomes a sweet, humorous and awkward journey of Sherlock overcoming his past to flirt with the idea of something more with his companion. Misinterpretations and misunderstandings plague the two, as the good-natured, compassionate and sometimes BAMF ex-army doctor, is seduced by-proxy by the mad-genius detective trying to work through what he wants and if he is capable of providing it. </b>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>________________________</p><blockquote>
  <p>“Jooohhnn,” Sherlock finally manages to say. His voice is thick and his speech slurs terribly so he sounds drunk. John gives a short laugh. </p>
  <p>“Ah, you found your words.” He strains as they start down the stairs and he has to work to counterbalance the gangly detective to keep them both from pitching forward and tumbling head first. “I was just getting use to finishing whole sentences,” John laughs. Sherlock’s head sags against his chest and lulls from side to side. </p>
  <p>“Jooohhnn… Jawnnn…. Johhnn. John. John. John?”</p>
  <p>“Ok. So you've found one word,” John laughs.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sex is Violence

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [sherlock_prompts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/sherlock_prompts) collection. 



“Sherlock. Sherlock?” John crouches beside the consulting detective who is sprawled out on the floor. Sherlock’s silver-blue eyes have nearly disappeared behind his dilated pupils. He stares around the room, wide-eyed, seeming to look past his friend. He strains to sit up but only manages to flop around on the wooden floor like the world's most posh fish out of water.

“She really did a number on you, yeah?” John remarks glancing towards the window Irene Adler has just disappeared through. He pulls out his torch. He shines the light in Sherlock's eye, then points it away and brings it back. He tries the other eye, then sighs. 

“Hardly any pupil constriction,” John mutters, “You’re pretty bloody high.” He presses two fingers in the crook of that long, pale neck where the hard jaw meets the throat, seeking a pulse. Sherlock's heartbeat seems steady, though elevated. 

“Right. First thing's first… You're not going to like this bit,” he says to Sherlock, even though he knows his friend is likely too far gone to understand. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials Mycroft. 

“Yeah, no time for chit chat, Mycroft. We got ambushed by some Americans with guns. One man dead, three injured, police on their way… Yeah, I know, but Sherlock is in a bad way. Irene injected him with something… no, but I think he’ll recover... Right now, I need you to get us out of here… Alright, downstairs in 5 minutes... We'll be there, just make sure _you are._ ” John hangs up the phone with a huff. 

“Where the bloody hell does he come off... acting like _I_ failed to protect _you_ ,” he murmurs in Sherlock's direction. The detective just stares back, mouth moving wordlessly. John shakes his head. “Shit. Guess I did.” He sighs and scrubs a hand across his face. “But I'm here _now_ , Sherlock.” 

John looks his companion over. He considers that he should be able to carry the thin detective down the stairs. As much as the younger man might surpasse the more compact ex-soldier in height, John certainly has him beat in weight and with his solid packing of muscles. 

Carrying him may be the quickest solution but that would certainly be awkward _in more ways than one._

“Alright. To your feet.” He wraps Sherlock's long arm around his own neck and holds on to it. He uses the thrust of his legs and the leverage of his shoulders to pull Sherlock to his feet. The drugged man makes a choked whimper.

“You know you were the one who let her send me away... Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes can handle it himself.” John's voice is bitter. “Goddamn idiot,” he mutters.

Sherlock wobbles on his legs and stares at him as wide-eyed as a newborn foal. John’s face softens and he almost giggles, his frustration melting away into fondness. It is strangely endearing to see this typically aloof and poised man so awkward and vulnerable. 

With one of his hands holding onto the arm around his shoulder and the other wrapped around Sherlock's slim waist, they move side by side as John half drags him to the door of the bedroom. 

“Jooohhnn,” Sherlock finally manages to say. His voice is thick and his speech slurs terribly so he sounds drunk. John gives a short laugh. 

“Ah, you found your words.” He strains as they start down the stairs and he has to work to counterbalance the gangly detective to keep them both from pitching forward and tumbling head first. “I was just getting used to finishing whole sentences,” John laughs. Sherlock’s head sags against his chest and lulls from side to side. 

“Jooohhnn… Jawnnn…. Johhnn. John. John. John?”

“Ok. So you've found one word,” John laughs. He is panting and starting to perspire from wrestling with his surprisingly unwieldy companion down the first flight of stairs. He props the wobbly detective against the wall at the first landing a moment. His large, silver eyes are blinking slowly and trying to focus on John's face. 

“John,” Sherlock slurs and he appears to be making a concerted effort to be serious, but the muscles of his face don't seem to be cooperating. Emotions openly flicker over his features; anger, sadness, fear, pain. “She beat me, John, like a - like a _corpse,_ John.” 

John snorts. “Unusual uses for riding crops; suppose you have _that_ in common.” John shakes his head. Sherlock’s face settles on sadness. He hoists Sherlock's arm around his shoulder again, grabs his waist and maneuvers them both to the stairs. 

“Really didn't count on it being this hard, Sherlock. Little help would be nice. You're mostly dead weight.” Sherlock puts some effort into stiffening his legs, pushing into John with the odd angles they manage to catch.

“Just a means to an end, John,” Sherlock mumbles as they hobble down the stairs together. “Painful and ugly and hollow… _always pain_.” 

They’ve made it down the last flight of stairs now. The tired doctor rests his limp friend against the wall, pinning him upright with a firm hand on his chest. John leans forward breathing heavily from the effort. 

“You’re not making a lot of sense now,” John mutters. He glances at the front door and rolls his shoulder to alleviate the growing ache.

“You know… John… It's just about - about _taking_ … and _pain_ … that's all… taking pleasure in inflicting pain... _sex is violence_ , John.”

John’s head whips up and he stares at Sherlock in awe and horror. The younger man's head is hung, his dark, curly hair falling down over his eyes. He looks small and defeated.

“Christ, Sherlock… you don't really-” John swallows around the tightness in his chest. “What the hell kind of experiences have you had?” He feels a sudden surge of anger towards whomever made his brilliant friend feel this way. He is glad one Irene Adler is no longer within his grasp or he might teach her a thing or two about violence. His stomach churns.

“Come on, let's get you the hell out of here,” John says grabbing Sherlock. His anger serves to give him the boost of strength he needs to get him quickly out the front door and on to the pavement where a long black car immediately pulls up beside them. He carefully slides Sherlock into the car then slips in beside him. 

Anthea looks up from the opposite seat, her blackberry clutched in front of her with both hands; thumbs hovering over the keys. She takes them in with one glance and promptly returns her eyes to the screen to continue punching on the little buttons.

“Thanks,” John says as the car pulls away from the pavement and slips into the flow of traffic. He hears the sirens whiz past them and sees the flashing lights through the tinted windows. Anthea glances up. “Tell Mycroft I said thanks,” John says to her. She makes a noncommittal sound of acknowledgement and goes back to tapping on her phone.

John turns his attention to his friend, who sits as a pile of long, uncoordinated limbs, his legs sprawled, his arms limp and cast haphazardly at his sides, his head lolling against his chest. He half opens his heavy eyelids to look around and as soon as he notices John beside him, he rolls his head onto his friend's shoulder. John adjusts in his seat and glances at Anthea uncomfortably. 

“John.” Sherlock says the name as if reminding himself of something. His eyes are closed and he is breathing rapidly. The doctor takes his thin wrist and presses his fingertips into it to check his pulse. It is thumping wildly.

“I'm here, Sherlock,” John whispers reassuringly. He closes his hand around his companion's wrist and just holds it. Sherlock hums contentedly and after a moment his breathing slows.

“John is gentle,” Sherlock mumbles. “Won't hurt-” John’s eyes widen and he feels a sudden rush of heat in his face and chest at the realization of what Sherlock is implying given their earlier discussion. He looks at Anthea who is still completely focused on the little screen before her. He swallows roughly, then gives Sherlock's wrist a gentle squeeze. 

“Shhh. You're delirious. It's the drugs,” John whispers. Sherlock’s brow furrows but he doesn't open his eyes or move his head from his friend's shoulder. 

The car pulls up outside 221B and John commences hauling his drugged friend out of the car while Anthea does her best to ignore their existence. He mutters goodbye, though he knows she will neither hear nor respond, then he props Sherlock against himself and guides him inside.

Never did 17 stairs seem so impossibly far to traverse. The ex-soldier leans Sherlock up against the wall at the foot of the stairs to gather his strength and form a plan of attack. 

“This is - This is _the_ wall, John,” Sherlock exclaims, his voice still slurring. He straightens and smiles the largest, goofy smile John has ever seen. The doctor laughs. 

“ _The_ wall, eh? What's so special about _this wall?_ ” John inquires glancing at the dingy wallpaper he'd seen a thousand times before. Sherlock looks around beaming with child-like joy. 

“You came back to life here, John... You stood right _there_ and you laughed and you - you agreed to live with me… leaning right _here_ , John.” Sherlock strokes the wall and closes his eyes, tilting his head back. John purses his lips and clears his throat, feeling the burning at the back of his eyes. 

“That's a bit _sentimental,_ ” John mutters. He takes a deep breath. “Come on then,” he says slipping himself under Sherlock's arm. The detective is regaining some control over his limbs now, so the stairs aren't quite as bad as John feared, but he is still sweating profusely by the time they reach the top. 

He wrestles Sherlock to the sitting room sofa and collapses beside him. Sweat is rolling down his face and he can feel it dripping underneath his shirt. He pulls his coat off and tosses it to the floor.

“God, you're hard work,” John grumbles undoing the top two buttons on his button down shirt.

“Worth it,” Sherlock states with a smug smirk. 

John laughs. “Now _there's_ the arrogant bastard I know and-” He stops short, looking startled. He glances at his friend who is sprawled out with his eyes still closed. The detective makes no sign he heard or was following what the doctor almost said.

John sighs and looks towards the kitchen. He would really like some tea but... he is hot and sweaty and it has been a _hell of a day._ As he runs through the whirlwind of events in his mind, he realizes there is very little of his day that he can _‘process’_ (as his therapist, Ella, would call it) by writing it in his blog. 

_Sherlock without pants in the palace... Fighting Sherlock in the alley... A naked Irene Adler on Sherlock's lap..Being held at gunpoint while Sherlock tried to deduce a code... Sherlock's odd confession... Whatever Sherlock was suggesting in the car._

John scrubs his face with his hands. 

“When did _this_ become my life,” John mutters with a half smile. He looks around the flat, his eyes coming to rest on a drugged Sherlock. “I'm going to take a shower.” The weary ex-soldier hoists himself to his feet with a groan. Sherlock lurches forward and grabs the fabric of John's trousers at the knee. 

“Don't go, John,” Sherlock pleads. He looks up at John with confusion and fear in his wide eyes. 

“It's just a shower. I'll be right there.” John points down the hall. Sherlock’s other hand wraps around his leg, fingertips digging into his inner thigh just above his knee. “Oi!” John exclaims with a jump.

“I need you, John. Stay,” Sherlock growls squeezing his eyes closed. He pulls his friend's leg to him and presses his face against his outer thigh like a frightened child. The doctor is not sure what to do with this. He pats Sherlock's head uncertainly, trying to sooth him. 

“I have a terribly dark and demented mind which I have endeavored to fill with every manner of fact about the worst misdeeds of humanity... You're the only thing that shuts it off, John,” Sherlock whispers into the fabric of the doctor's trousers. John stares down at the mess of black curls and the long, lean body clinging to him desperately. He feels emotion overwhelming him, then he takes a deep breath and beats it back with reason.

“You're on a hell of a drug trip right now, Sherlock. You don't even know what you're saying and, thankfully _for you_ , you're not likely to remember one bit of this in the morning.” John gently peels the drugged man off his leg. Sherlock flops back on the couch appearing boneless, eyes still closed. John lets out a long breath.

“Alright. I _need_ a shower.” John looks down at himself and is grateful that what he feels happening below the waist isn't apparent. “I _really_ do,” He mutters as he untucks his shirt to be safe that the most observant person he knows doesn't realize what all his sweetly vulnerable confessions are doing to him. He glances at his friend, who is not moving. “You stay there, Sherlock,” He instructs. 

John has two more buttons undone on his shirt and has made it to the bathroom door when he hears the loud thud in the sitting room. He hurries back to find Sherlock sprawled on the floor, trying to get to his hands and knees. He has the doctor's coat clutched in one hand. 

“John. John. John,” he's muttering. “Where'd he go? How'd I lose _him?_ ” 

“Sherlock?” John says softly as he looks on in confusion.

“John?” The younger man's voice is thick with anguish and determination. He tries to push himself up onto his feet. The room could have been an ice skating rink for as much difficulty as he is having getting his feet under himself. John crosses the room, puts his arms around the lean chest of the detective and hauls him to his feet. The drugged man provides little help at all, his stiff legs making him flop over the doctor at an angle. He rests his head in the crook of John's neck and inhales deeply. 

“I thought you'd gone, and my Mind Palace is all dark and I can't find your room and you won't come when I call -” Sherlock rambles against John's neck.

“Alright,” John says calmly. He is grateful for his military training which automatically kicks in when he is under stress, flooding him with a sense of calm and control. “We are getting you to bed and you are going to stay there until this all wears off,” The former Captain says authoritatively. He pulls Sherlock to his side and helps him down the hall to his bedroom.

John drops his friend on the bed. Sherlock falls flat on his back then pulls himself up to lean back on his elbows. He looks up at John with a strangely inviting look that John promptly tells himself he is _not_ seeing. 

He decides he is certainly not going to try to get his smartly dressed companion out of his fine suit and into a pair of pajamas when he is looking at him like _that_ and saying things… things he really shouldn't say. John opts for yanking his shoes off, throwing his legs up on the bed and tucking him under the duvet. Sherlock stares up at the doctor from under the covers with wide eyes. John sighs and starts to walk to the door. He hesitates, stops and turns around.

“Sherlock,” John steps forward and waits until his friend appears completely focused on him. 

“John,” the younger man whispers as his slightly dulled but vulnerable eyes latch onto John's familiar form.

“I know you're going to forget this all tomorrow, but if somehow… _somehow_ your big, beautiful brain can hold onto _something_ from tonight, please let it be _this_ , Sherlock…” John takes another step forward and leans down over his friend. Sherlock blinks up at him. 

“It doesn't have to be _those things_ \- those things you said before. Sex doesn't have to be like _that_. Not with the right person and not when you love and care for each other. It's beautiful and wonderful and just… really, _really_ good. It is the most you can give and as close as you can get to another person... I know you usually call me a _romantic_ or overly _sentimental_ for things like that, but it can be true... I hope you give someone a chance to show you that some day, Sherlock.” John briefly presses his hand down on Sherlock's shoulder then turns and leaves.


	2. Corrupted Data

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's perspective on the day after Irene drugged him as he tries to deduce what happened between him and John that afternoon. However, his data is all corrupted and this skews his understanding.

_Pain._

It is the sharp and incessant sting of pain that calls out to Sherlock through the dreamless abyss. He gathers the fluttering wisps of himself and gravitates towards something solid. As he rises, the sensations from his corporeal self start to bleed into the darkness like light filtering through a murky pond. He becomes aware of a sense of warmth in the flesh and bone binding him, the ebb and flow of familiar noises from the street outside his window and the fragrance of his room mingling with the fainter scent of cooked breakfast. 

Sherlock yearns to just float there; not quite solid, with the muted sensitivity a welcome escape from the harsh assault that is his usual existence, but the pain reaches out to him. It pulls him to the surface until he at last locates the source; the palms of his hands. 

It happens slowly and then all at once he is solid again. He realizes he has arms and they are stretched above his head and crossed at the wrists. He has hands that are clenched into fists so tightly that the nails of his long fingers are digging into the flesh of his palms. A voice, that sounds rather like Mycroft's, barks from the back of his mind, _’Wrong!’_

Sherlock's eyes snap open and he frantically sweeps them across the dim bedroom; scrutinizing every shadow. Finding no immediate danger, he flops back and presses his eyes closed, trying to center himself. 

>   
>  _Access: Last Night._  
>  _Data Corrupted._  
>  _Access Denied._  
> 

Sherlock wades through the gray, swirling fog of his mind with nothing more than flashes from the previous night pushing through; nebulous, shimmering phantoms that skitter away before he can place hands on them. He searches for some source of this internal chaos. 

There are _seven_ possibilities, the most likely being _drugs_. 

His body contracts in on itself as the familiar wave of anger and shame wells up inside him. It is followed quickly by fear as his mind makes the next logical deduction; he has not used drugs since the night he was forced to admit his drug history to John only moments after the doctor agreed to move in with the consulting detective. Lestrade’s flimsy excuse of a _‘drugs bust’_ to blackmail him into cooperation on his case had brought him face to face with an expression he never wanted to see again; John Watson’s trust, faith and admiration diminishing ever so slightly. It had been enough; _far too much_ , honestly. For _that_ moment alone Sherlock was forever deleting Lestrade’s first name. 

So the dark truth remains, if he had deigned to use drugs last night it must be the result of something particularly cataclysmic. Cold fingers of fear wrap around his insides as he considers what might be _that_ distressing. He firmly pushes those emotions aside. He knows he needs to resurrect what occurred last night from the depths of his drug-addled memory if he hopes to be prepared to face whatever reality lies beyond his bedroom door. 

As a matter of principle he does not attempt to excavate any of the memories of a _danger night_. He always finds it is better to delete everything from before and during those nights. Review of such things only risks a vicious cycle where he finds himself uncovering a renewed need to deaden determinantal emotional responses. 

However, Sherlock seems to be a magnet for dangerous situations, even when he is just trying to escape into a drug stupor. So, quite by accident, he has found himself needing to reconstruct the events of a binge night for the sake of an alibi three times in the past. 

He now has a process; a method to recapture _lost data_ from his ever active _hard drive._ Having a process to move through when faced with such a horrific task provides some comfort for him. He automatically switches into his _safe recovery mode_.

He exhales shakily and opens his eyes. He focuses his attention on his wrists; turning them slowly as he methodically examines them for marks, bruises or abrasions. Confirming them to be unmarred, he then assesses the state of his hands. 

_Three thin, red half-circles are imprinted in the right palm; one being deep enough to pierce the skin. Self-inflicted. Left palm appears unblemished. No notable particulates under the nails. One fading mark on knuckles of right hand. No other abrasions to indicate a struggle._

Sherlock tosses back the covers and does a cursory evaluation the state of his body. He is wearing a full suit that is, at first appearances, intact. He lets out a long breath of relief. 

_No shoes though. Shoes removed by someone. Obviously did not make it into bed of own accord._

He rises from the bed and straightens himself. He moves to stand before the full-length mirror on the door of his wardrobe and undresses slowly, examining each article of clothing as he goes. He first unbuttons his trousers and lets them drop to the floor. He steps out of them and with a quick examination, sets them aside to assess his legs.

_Trousers intact. Inner button done. Unlikely removed while in drugged state. No marks on legs. State of knees appears acceptable; not any abrasions or evidence of a significant amount of time spent kneeling._

Another sigh of relief escapes his lips. He swallows hard around the knot of guilt and humiliation that is forming in his upper chest over having to be concerned about these things for himself. _The reality of drugs._ In his Mind Palace, Sherlock forcefully bolts the door of _those_ memories and shims a chair against the knob for good measure. 

He takes off his suit jacket and carefully evaluates it.

_Small puncture hole in right sleeve of jacket near upper arm._

He places his jacket on the nearby chair. He unbuttons his shirt and lets it slide off his shoulders, catching it before it hits the floor. He examines it carefully, fingers dancing over the fabric with practiced and precise movements.

 _Corresponding hole in shirt._

Continuing his careful self-inspection, Sherlock touches his own arm gently.

_Arm beneath is tender to touch._

>   
>  _Unlocked Access: Injection._  
>  _Play._  
>  Irene Adler stroking down left arm, moving behind, stabbing needle in right arm. Pain. Irene’s cold, piercing stare with a sadistic glint in her eyes and a riding crop in her hand. Hot fire surging through every vein; stealing self-control.  
>  _Stop._

Sherlock feels his body shudder involuntarily and becomes aware of his heart thumping and his chest constricting. He shakes his head; dark curls lashing his forehead. He smooths his hands over himself, chest to abdomen, to calm the rising alarm.

 _Ridiculous oversight,_ he scorns himself. He had underestimated Ms. Adler. He had thought himself victorious and let his defenses slip. 

He considers that at least the drugged state had not been of his own doing. It therefore stands to reason that there is not a horrific precipitating event to hedge around. He inhales sharply through his nose and lets his breath slowly gust out his pursed lips. As if the air from his lungs carries his whirling torrent of emotions on it, he grows more composed as the air escapes. 

He was drugged while on a case. That poses a different array of concerns. There are still unwelcome scenarios that could have unfolded while he was under the influence. Additionally, there are many potential clues that could be overlooked unless he attempts a recovery. With a sigh, Sherlock resigns himself to the conclusion that it is still imperative to reconstruct what occurred once drugged. 

Considerably less shaken, he turns a critical eye to his own chest and arms, examining himself in the full length mirror on the wardrobe door.

_Two welts; one on upper arm, one near wrist. Shape of welt indicates they were inflicted by a riding crop._

He angles his body towards the mirror so he can examine the red, puckered, triangular-shaped marks standing out against the pale white of his skin. The edges are already starting to yellow underneath; promising an ugly bruise. He considers that at least now he will have a comparison for various stages of bruises on _live_ flesh from such an instrument. That could, perhaps, provide some vital clue on a future case. 

He reviews himself in the mirror and grimaces, taking note of the split in his left cheek.

>   
>  _Access: Cheek wound._  
>  _Play._  
>  Flesh giving way as fist makes contact with John’s strong jaw. Pain radiating in hand. John grunting and reeling from the blow; expression of shock and alarm transforming into anger. John's blue eyes going dark and simmering with rage. His jaw and fists clenching.  
>  _Slow Motion._  
>  The arc of John's body as he is delivering a precise swing; non-dominant hand, not fully strength. Fist connecting with jaw; clattering and pain. Sparks in vision. Turning back with a sentence forming on lips. John lunging, his arms closing around lithe body. Breath escaping all at once. Sensation of warm iron wrapped in the flesh of a compact body pressing down. John's hands closing on throat; not enough to hurt or cut off breathing, just enough to firmly hold. Grappling. John’s guttural sounds and his sudden unwillingness to let go. Throwing John back enough to crouch. John glaring with determination as he lunges again. Turning away. Stinging of pavement beneath hands and knees as the length of John’s body lands against back. His arm slipping into a choke hold around neck. Struggling. Heat building.  
>  “Okay! I think we’re done now, John.” John’s grip tightening as he surges forward a fraction.  
>  “You wanna remember, Sherlock: I was a soldier.”  
>  _Stop._  
> 

John’s words echo in Sherlock’s mind. As he returns from accessing the memory, he finds he is breathing heavily; even heavier than if his body were engaged in the recalled struggle. He considers this unusual since the event was not that stressful.

Odd sensations are now crawling across his skin and he rubs his hands over his arms vigorously, willing the prickling, electric feeling to go away. His brow furrows as he looks over himself in the mirror and his eyes fall on his pants; their expensive heavy silk fabric now straining with a prominent bulge. 

_Arousal?_

Sherlock tilts his head and gazes at this foreign intrusion with curiosity. 

Willfully oblivious to any sexual stimuli and related urges, arousal has never been a state that comes naturally to him. Even when on drugs, where he is less able to manage any latent urges, he has never known himself to become aroused. Surely it was not the recollection of the fight that caused his current state? He hooks his thumbs in his pants and pulls them down and off. 

Glaring at the reflection of his own half-hard cock, he cannot deny the evidence of his own eyes. Though he is certain that his body did not respond this way at the time of the original incident, he presently appears to be aroused at recalling the struggle with John. 

His mouth pulls down in a frown as he wonders what could be the differentiating factor between this fight and every other experience. He has fought in close physical contact many times with a variety of people and never had any arousal. He has had a multitude of experiences with John that have not evoked arousal either. His initial reaction had not been _this,_ so something must have been altered between the time of the incident and now. Something that has shifted the encounter’s significance. 

Sherlock inspects the pants he just removed. 

_Small amounts of dried fluid. Indicates arousal at some point during the night. Not enough to indicate full release._

It appears he had been excited at some time during the night and he considers what might have been cause for his apparent arousal. It seems probable that this is the pivotal clue in understanding his current state. He closes his eyes and in his mind tries to trace back the thread connecting the sensation of arousal to a moment last night

>   
>  _Access: Arousal_  
>  _File not found._  
> 

The detective huffs in frustration. He tries again, digging for a sensory file. Something vague flutters at the edges of his thoughts. He presses towards it. It is a tangled pile of contradicting sensations. He tries to pull it apart. It is squirmy and distorted and everything has an iridescent sheen of surrealism to it.

>   
>  _Access: Arousal_  
>  _Corrupted Sensory File._  
>  _Play_  
>  The earth and mint scent of John. The undertones of expensive leather upholstery, sickly sweet woman's perfume and faint whiffs of Mycroft’s aftershave. The familiar rocking sensation of a car moving down the streets of London. An efficacious, muscular shoulder pressed against cheek, sustaining head against warped gravity. A strong, warm, hand encircling wrist, anchoring body. 
> 
> Across the darkness a shimmery, iridescent vestige of John is leaning forward. Sudden awareness that it is hovering over the pale expanse of outstretched body. A flickering sense of the walls and bed of John’s bedroom. Eyes warm and inviting running over body with that look of gentle reverence. ‘Amazing,’ John’s lips are forming soundlessly. Looking down to see the contrast of John's hands gently and tenderly moving down pale chest, over ribs, down stomach -  
>  _STOP._  
> 

Sherlock gasps letting the memory go. He leans forward resting his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror as he struggles to get his breathing back under control.

 _Not real. Can’t be real. Eliminate the impossible. That... with John... is impossible._

He focuses his silvery eyes on those of his reflection. The pupils are blown wide and he looks, for all intents and purposes, as if he is still on drugs. He feels the bile churn in his stomach, trying to creep up his throat. A deep-seated hatred for the inherent flaws, the insistent demands and the uncontrollable urges of his _transport_ makes a low growl rumble from his chest. He exchanges a seething stare with his reflection and rocks back pulling his feet together to stand up straight. For a moment he scrutinizes his naked reflection in the mirror. 

Though he would gladly ignore such base and plebian things, he recognizes there is inherent value in appearing attractive to others. He can grasp the _concept_ of attraction but only in the abstract. By the cultural standards for an attractive male, he is aware that he is _not_ optimally aligned to the standard. The general cultural preference is something more along the lines of John; athletic physique, well muscled, bronzed skin tone indicative of having been active in the sun (though after months of living in London John’s skin had faded to a beige or sometimes the color of sand). 

Sherlock’s body, like his brain, is an oddity. By acceptable standards of attractiveness he considers he is far too lean and gaunt and with his pallid skin he can hardly be taken as a model of health and well-being. His height provides him some advantage; useful for intimidation. However, he must acknowledge that many of his features are more valued among the fairer gender; prominent cheekbones, above average lip volume and facial feature symmetry. Sherlock knows himself lacking in the more masculine features of a broad forehead, prominent chin and brow and chiseled jaw. However, some seem to find him appealing, a fact he has no trouble exploiting when _The Work_ requires it. In fact, he takes pains to ensure every part of himself is meticulously managed to optimize his ability to capitalize on these strengths and minimize his apparent flaws. 

Gazing at his own naked form he notes all of the flaws of his body now, glaringly apparent in his own eyes. Without the armour of his clothes, he feels remarkably young and vulnerable. It is not a sensation he enjoys. 

He opens his wardrobe and takes out pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. He moves to the dresser and pulls out some new pants. He slips into his clothes quickly, instantly feeling more like himself.

He turns and looks at his bed, recalling that, when the deductive methods fail, there is a physical process to recalling stubborn memories. Putting himself in the same position in which the memory was recorded sometimes provides enough clues for the fragments to be captured and reassembled.

As he moves towards the bed, he pauses and picks up his shoes. He examines them carefully, turning them over in his hands.

_Scuffing around toes and sides indicates feet dragging at different angles; being partially dragged with unsteady gait._

>   
>  _Unlocked Access:_  
>  _Corrupted Sensory File._  
>  _Play_  
>  Arm wrapped around John’s shoulder. John’s hand grasping forearm and his other arm pressed diagonally against back. Strong, capable hand grasping hip, steering it. Feeling of heat in leaning in to John.  
>  _Stop._  
> 

He strides to the chair and picks up his discarded suit jacket. He holds it to his nose and breathes deeply.

_Scent of earth and mint mixed with the musky, salty aroma of John’s sweat. Conclusion: It had taken significant effort but, on his own, John had assisted in getting him back to the flat._

He can hear John moving about the kitchen now. He listens for a moment to him putting on the kettle and getting out pans to cook.

He lays down on the bed and pulls the covers up over himself. He breathes deeply and tries to push himself back to last night. He closes his eyes and an image begins to resolve.

>   
>  _Unlocked Access: Last Memory_  
>  _Partial File._  
>  _Data Corrupted._  
>  _Play._  
>  John gives off his own glow in the dim room. He is leaning over; warmth and kindness radiating. His lips are moving. His voice fades in and out.  
>  “...beautiful brain… hold onto something… please, Sherlock… Sex… love and care for each other… beautiful and wonderful… _really_ good… as close as you can get to another person… romantic… sentimental… like that… true… I hope... a chance to show you that some day, Sherlock.”  
>  _STOP_  
> 

Sherlock’s eyes snap open as he draws in a gasp. He has the conviction that his head has experienced a sudden reversal of gravity. There is a flash of heat, like some sort of micro-explosion that has engulfed his face and chest. His mind studders.

>   
>  _Access: Last Memory_  
>  _Partial File._  
>  _Data Corrupted._  
>  _Play._  
>  _Repeat._  
>  _Repeat_  
>  _Repeat_  
>  _Repeat_  
>  _Repeat_  
>  _Stop._  
> 

He digs and digs at the memory, but he can’t find the missing scraps. He tells himself that he can’t draw a conclusion from what his fragmented and distorted recollection seems to indicate.

_John is his friend. John is **not** gay. John is vocal and adamant in his denials of any implied relationship between them. John requires affection and would not be interested in a relationship with a high-functioning sociopath. John is doctor with an alcoholic sister, he would not seek a relationship with a former junkie._

As the absurdity of such a conclusion comes into focus, he begins to calm. When he completely pushes the conclusion aside as impossible and at last feels his composure intact, he finds it surprising that, along with relief, there is an undercurrent of melancholy settling into his chest.

Concluding there is nothing more to be gathered in his room, he rises, slips on a housecoat and cautiously exits towards the kitchen. 

_______________________

Sherlock halts in the hall outside the door to the kitchen gazing in at John. Thin wisps of smoke rise out of the pan of bacon on the stove, curling towards the ceiling around the doctor's quick, adept arms. He is in his house coat and his sandy blond hair is still wet on the ends from his recent shower.

“Mornin’” John proclaims amiably. He briefly lifts his eyes to Sherlock and flashes a genuine smile. As his eyes slide back to the pan before him and the smile fades on his lips, the detective perceives the weariness just beneath the surface. He watches John as he stretches to crack an egg into a second pan and his face contorts in pain. He pulls his arm back with a hitch and rolls his shoulder with a faint groan. 

_Did not sleep well. Shoulder aggravated by sleeping in unusual position._

Sherlock surveys the hall for any relevant clues. His focus narrows on John's brown _‘date’_ shoes resting near the couch. 

_Canceled date. Slept on couch._

Sherlock returns his gaze to John, scrutinizing him. He wonders why he canceled his date and yet does not appear angry. He notes the softened lines around John’s eyes and forehead that indicate a certain type of relaxed contentment. 

_Recently satiated sexual urges. Most likely in shower._

He sweeps his eyes from John's bare feet up his legs, over his tightly wrapped housecoat to his neck.

>   
>  _Unlocked Access: John_  
>  _Partial Sensory File._  
>  _Play._  
>  Warm breath rebounding off of John's neck. Face pressing against his strong shoulder. Inhaling his comforting scent. The fringe of his hair brushing against forehead. The feeling of his arms wrapped tightly around body. Lips moving, brushing lightly against the flesh of the doctor's neck.  
>  _Stop._  
> 

“I'm making breakfast,” John offers. Sherlock blinks repeatedly and wraps his housecoat tightly around himself. He focuses a sharp, cold stare at his flatmate.

“Obviously.” His voice assumes its typical air of scorn and intolerance for stating what can clearly be seen.

John smiles. “Yeah, that _is_ a bit obvious, I know but...” He shoots Sherlock a sideways glance, “You looked… _confused_.” 

Sherlock huffs, “I’m fine, John.” He scowls and attempts to quickly deflect the focus back on his friend. “I was just observing that you did not go on your date last night, you slept in your clothes on the couch and you masturbated in the shower this morning.” Sherlock blinks, his eyes wide in startlement that mirrors John’s.

“I’m sorry… that’s one more deduction than I was expecting,” Sherlock says woodenly.

“You and me both,” John says with an expression that manages to be equal parts amusement and embarrassment. His cheeks are slightly flushed making his blue eyes seem darker. He clears his throat and returns his attention to pushing the bacon around in the skillet. “It’ll be a few minutes.” 

Sherlock stalks towards the sitting room. He glances around and decides that the most likely scenario is that John placed him on the couch when helping him into the flat last night. As he strides to the couch he has a faint awareness of having spent some time looking for something on the floor. He sinks down onto the couch and leans back. When nothing comes to him, he lets his eyes slide closed.

>   
>  _Unlocked Access: Couch_  
>  _Partial Audio File._  
>  _Play._  
>  John's amused voice, “... _there's_ the arrogant bastard I know and-”  
>  Silience.  
>  _Stop._  
> 

Sherlock puzzles over this, turning the phrase over in his mind. ‘Know and’... _Love?_ Had John made some sort of confession of love last night? That would be _absurd_. Why would he say such a thing? Generally, even the corrupted data made some sort of logical sense when recovered. This seems like data is being pulled from some sort of alternate reality. He growls in frustration and plunges into the gray mist trying to find more.

At a gentle touch on his shoulder, Sherlock jumps and his eyes snap open.

“All right?” John inquires leaning down over him. Sherlock narrows his eyes on him, glancing at the hand that had touched him then back up to the soft, kind face of his companion. “Your breakfast is getting cold,” the doctor remarks gently. He takes a step to the side to reveal a tray on the coffee table in front of the couch with a rather large cooked breakfast and a cup of tea. Sherlock leans forward to look it over

John jerks his chin towards the tray. “Eat,” he instructs. “Doctor’s orders.” 

Sherlock turns his head to look up at John, prepared to protest. A sensation suddenly thrusts itself on him from his memory.

>   
>  _Unlocked Access: John_  
>  _Partial Sensory File._  
>  _Play._  
>  Face pressed against fabric of John's trousers. Fingers digging into flesh of his muscular leg. Pressure of John's hand on head.  
>  _Stop._  
> 

Sherlock blinks repeatedly, pushing the sensation back into its proper place. _Had he?_... To _John_... Surely, he would remember something like that _happening _with John,_ even if he had been on drugs. The universe couldn't be that cruel… and John wouldn't allow him..._ Sherlock stares up at the doctor, trying to wrap his mind around the possibility.

However unlikely, the preponderance of evidence is steadily building towards the possibility of some significant shift in his relationship with his friend having occurred last night. He feels conflicted.

“John?” He isn't sure how to begin. John studies his face and takes a small step forward, intrigued by his open expression of confusion. 

“You OK, Sherlock?” He inquires. “Some sort of lingering side effects?” The doctor's gaze turns clinical as he sits down on the edge of the couch, running his eyes over his friend in an evaluative manner. His hand slips around Sherlock's wrist, seeking a pulse.

Sherlock inhales sharply, feeling himself overcome by the chaotic sensations in the confusing memory of being both in a car with John's hand around his wrist and simultaneously in John's bed with his hands running down his body.

John quickly withdraws his hand, holding up his open palms, “Sorry. It's alright. You're fine. Sorry. I know how you are about touch. I didn't mean to-”

“No,” Sherlock mutters, pressing his eyes closed and making a tight shake of his head from side to side. “Not that.” He realizes that, in spite of the unexpectedly triggered memory, he misses his friend's clasp on his wrist; it was grounding. He doesn't know how to recover that touch. 

The doctor waits patiently. His eyes searching and taking note of the usually stoic detective's pale and frightened expression and the shaking in his hands. “What can I do?” he asks softly.

“I need to know what happened last night, John,” he breathes. He opens his eyes and focuses them on John.

“Alright,” John replies with a nod. Concern is still clear in his expression. He rakes a hand through his bristly hair leaving it disheveled. “Irene injected you with something and escaped with her phone.”

“She beat me with a riding crop,” Sherlock offers trying not to shudder. 

Something like sadness flickers over the doctor's features. “Yeah. I think so.” Sherlock notices an edge of anger and regret to his friend's gaze. He slides his eyes away. 

“And?”

John sighs. “Well, Mycroft sent a car to get us.”

Sherlock whips his head around and glares at his companion. His voice is accusatory, “You called _Mycroft?_ ”

The doctor shrugs, thrusting forward his lips and narrowing his eyes in an expression of irritation. “Yeah, I didn’t much like it either but I had to get us out of there before the police arrived.” His shoulders slump a little as he leans forward, looking at the floor. 

Sherlock concludes that his friend's pride was somehow damaged by his call to Mycroft. He makes a mental note to insult Mycroft in a particularly hurtful way next time he sees him. He then wonders what he'll owe his brother since he not only botched recovery of Irene’s phone, but he'd got himself injected with drugs and needed a car sent to bail them out. Mycroft is sure to be insufferable for months. 

“My brother’s car; Anthea was there,” Sherlock states rather than asks, recalling the perfume. John nods in confirmation.

“You were holding my wrist.” Sherlock looks down at his wrist and his eyes flick to his companion’s hand, now on his own lap. “In the car?” John shifts a little.

“Taking your pulse,” John offers rubbing a finger across his upper lip in a small, quick gesture. The consulting detective's eyes narrow. _Classic unconscious movement to attempt to relieve the discomfort of deceiving. Inference: John is not telling the whole truth about the car ride._

Sherlock contemplates asking about the other fragments of the tangled memory but doesn't know how. _‘Did we get naked and touch, possibly in your bedroom’_ would be an incredibly uncomfortable blunder if that had only been some drug induced fantasy. He decides that since those memories appeared to happen simultaneously, the car ride must be the reality. Instead, he meets John's eyes and simply says, “And?”

John looks confused a moment. “Well, you were pretty knackered... Weren't making much sense.” His eyes dart away for a moment and the detective thinks he sees apprehension and something _more_ that his friend quickly suppresses. 

“Were a bit of a pillock, but got you home… to bed... so you slept it off.” John's jaw tightens minutely. Sherlock is cognizant that John is being very intentional in maintaining a neutral expression and providing eye contact.

“And?” Sherlock breathes. 

The ex-soldier's eyes narrow slightly as he scans him. He tilts his head, pressing his lips together. “You remember something, don't you?”

Sherlock gives a slow shake of his head again. His downcast eyes drift to John's bare legs. John clears his throat. He looks into John's eyes. “It - It makes very little sense,” He admits with some difficulty.

“Yeah, not surprised. No idea what it was she got into you but you were pretty bloody high,” John offers with a small smirk. He chuckles and moves to get up. 

Before Sherlock can restrain the urge his hand reaches out and grabs the ex-soldier's knee, holding him in place. They both stare at that long, pale hand wrapped around the top of the sandy brown knee with surprise. John looks up at his friend and his tension fades into something warmer and more relaxed. 

Sherlock remains stiff, a thrill of sensations vibrating in his body from that touch. His senses gather it in; the heat of John’s flesh, the coil of muscle around bone, the tickle of light brown hairs against his palm. 

After a moment of letting things settle inside him, Sherlock slides his eyes up to his friend's. He swallows hard but his voice still sounds gravely. “John, I would like you to know I remember what you said in my room last night,” Sherlock says very formally. He pauses and watches him carefully. John's expression is open, caring, a little concerned but kind. It is not what he expects. 

“Oh. Ok,” the doctor says with a small smile of encouragement.

He considers that his words sound remarkably similar to the well practiced speech he delivered at Angelo's that first evening with John. Sherlock had been terrified. It was one of a half dozen moments in those first few days when he fully expected John to walk away. 

John is a remarkable man who is an intriguing combination of dangerous weapon and gentle caretaker; a soldier who only a moment after meeting handed over what one might consider their most personal possession, his phone, to a stranger without a thought. He had called Sherlock ‘amazing’ when others only scoffed or scorned him. John had not only tolerated his obsession with solving crime but had followed him into the world of being a consulting detective without hesitation and had seemingly been completely comfortable in it all. He couldn't fathom what John wanted from him. He had considered, planned and practiced for that relationship conversation moment and yet, when it at last came to it and John gave him those slow blinks and gentle smile, Sherlock had faltered and actually considered it. 

These many months later there are both fewer barriers and significantly more risks in considering the possibility. 

_Would John stay if rejected again… but if things went wrong… but if things went right… but realtionships aren’t Sherlock's area… but there is no one else that he would be willing to try for but John…_

“I want you to know I will take it under careful consideration,” Sherlock concludes stiffly, his eyes wide with alarm at the gravity of his own words.

“Right. Good,” John says grinning and patting his friend's hand on his leg. He stands up and walks towards the stairs to his room. “You deserve someone that will treat you right, Sherlock,” John calls over his shoulder. 

Sherlock sucks in a deep breath. 

“Eat, Sherlock,” John calls from the top of the landing before his bedroom door clicks shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't really set out to make this a chapter story but the Kudos and Bookmarks encouraged me to give more!  
>  **If you like this please let me know.** Love to have great readers like you and I aim to please!


	3. To Kill A Decent Fellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night that Irene Adler drugged Sherlock still looms large in the minds of both men. Sherlock struggles to know how to act on his new found attraction and, with the best of intentions, John continues to misinterpret his flatmate's behavior.

John knows he is gaping; mouth hanging ajar, eyes wide as he tries to drink it all in, but he hardly cares anymore. Life has taught him there is little sense in being so insecure in oneself that you feel admiring the skills and talents of another somehow diminishes your own standing. He is what he is and Sherlock - well, Sherlock is a _bloody marvel. Spectacular. Extraordinary. One of a kind. Genius._ None of those words _truly_ capture him.

As Sherlock concludes the expressive dance that naturally accompanies a particularly spectacular deduction he angles his body towards John and he waits for the inevitable words of praise to tumble unbidden from _his blogger’s_ lips.

There is something more to the expectant gaze this evening. There is a soft pink heat to Sherlock's pale cheeks, in spite of the cool night air, and something simmers right below the surface of those piercing, quicksilver eyes. There is none of his usual air of pompous indifference. Instead every muscle is tightly coiled and primed for action as he leans forward, almost onto his toes, as if issuing a challenge for John to speak. 

This is a frequent occurrence of late. The familiar dichotomy of nearly motionless trances and vibrant, boundless energy has slowly shifted to a constant buzz of barely contained verve and constant vigilance. 

Accustom to the familiar ebb and flow of their life together this new behaviour, quite frankly, sets John on edge. He is waiting for something to happen at any moment. He tries to ignore it, being especially patient and tolerant as a sort of counterbalance to the anxiety he sees mounting in his companion, but in moments like this his natural danger sensor switches online and the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He feels himself vibrating with a similar barely-reined-in energy. 

“Amazing,” John obliges, holding Sherlock's stare with equal intensity. His voice is surprising to his own ears, low and gravely, betraying the inner state of turmoil between tense adrenaline and his usual awe and reverence for being witness to Sherlock’s talent on display. 

A shiver ripples through Sherlock’s gaunt frame. He tips his chin to his chest but fails to hide a flickering of what can only be described as mortification before quickly whirling away, coat flapping around him like an exotic bird unfurling its wings. His long legs carry him quickly in the opposite direction down the dark alley.

“What's he on about?” Lestrade inquires moving to John's shoulder and directing a puzzled stare down the alley towards the tall, dark figure striding away. Owing to the late (now early) hour he appears tired, the bags apparent under his eyes and the worry creases well defined on his face. His silver hair is disheveled as if he has run his hands through it a few too many times. 

John looks over at the Detective Inspector with a genial smile and gives a shrug. “Sherlock being Sherlock,” he offers blandly and starts to follow.

“Don’t know, mate. If someone looked at me _like that_ I'd think they are either goin’ to murder me or shag me senseless. I favor the first, given its Sherlock and all.” John chuckles and shakes his head with a small fond smile. He turns to look at Greg, as he takes a few backwards steps in pursuit of the quickly disappearing figure. 

“Don't worry, Greg, I can handle myself,” John calls with a wink that makes the DI snort and shake his head. 

“So can he, and yet, that's all I do when it comes to you two,” Greg retorts gruffly. He waves John off with a weary expression, looking very much the overworked father of two troublemakers. With a quick wave in return John turns and jogs between the hulking buildings searching for Sherlock among the shadows cast by bins and rubbish.

The early morning light is sickly, promising another rainy day. Everything is washed out in shades of gray which makes it especially difficult to discern one particular wisp of a man in a long dark coat. John hits his stride as he mauls over Greg's warning. 

He can't remember having done anything specific to tick Sherlock off, but he is a fickle beast. He doesn't really believe Donovan's assertion that the consulting detective is a psychopath capable of murdering someone for the thrill of it. That is not what he sees at all when he looks at the man he has been living with. Sherlock may have a scientific view of the deceased, and be driven to find solutions to the point of being oblivious to the feeling of others, but he is not _intentionally_ cold or cruel. He actually has an extremely vulnerable side that John sees in rare glimpses.

Sherlock’s struggle with boredom _is real_ , however. So he considers that it is possible that the detective has grown tired of a washed up ex-soldier as a companion. He had often considered it a short-lived privilege to be at Sherlock’s side. _Ordinary_ John Watson had somehow lucked into being the companion of a mind-blowing genius that solves crimes and thereby makes the world a better place. John was eagerly along for the ride, but he never harboured the hope that Sherlock would not at some point realize his mistake, get bored and chuck him out with the bins. 

John doesn't like to think about what his world will be like _then_ , so he just tries to live in the moment, accepting everything that comes with as much humour and grace as possible. 

The ex-soldier instinctively turns left as the alley dead ends onto a barren street. There is no real clue which direction Sherlock went, but his gut usually steers him right when it comes to finding his friend. 

He is still jogging and distractedly scanning the surroundings for Sherlock when he feels the hands close around the lapel of his shirt only a heartbeat before he senses his presence. 

With one quick jerk John is hauled into a dark alley and pinned against the dirty brick wall. Sherlock is looming over him, that incendiary look in his eyes, a knee between John's legs and long, slender fingers clutching his jacket at the collar. 

“Jesus, Sherlock, what the hell are you trying to do, _kill me?_ ” John blurts. He scans the imposing figure before him, taking in the tightness at the corner of his eyes, how his lips are pulled taut and how his chin is firmly set. There is a wild look to the detective's sharply perceptive eyes that John only ever sees when there is a severe dry spell of interesting cases. His danger sensor ramps into high gear and the hairs on his neck stand on end.

_Perhaps Greg was on to something._

John tries to shift up the wall away from the sharp knee between his legs, pressing up against his sensitive undercarriage, but the knee follows him so he stills. He lifts his hands to shoulder height, open palms facing his captor in a kind of surrender. “Least thought you'd be more creative ‘bout it,” John smiles

Sherlock’s brow wrinkles in confusion, then doubt sweeps through his eyes before the mask of intense heat returns.

“Say it,” Sherlock growls, his face intimately close to John’s. He only need tip forward and the ends of their noses would crush together. That piercing stare pins the doctor just as much as the tall, lean and surprisingly strong body. 

“Sorry, what?” John breathes.

“Say it." Sherlock’s low voice rumbles with careful annunciation. “Say exactly what you said at the crime scene, exactly how you said it.” 

John swallows and lets his mind slip back. He meets Sherlock's intense stare with confidence and conviction.

“Amazing,” he breathes, his voice dropping to that low rasp. Sherlock instantly stiffens. 

“Shit,” he mutters with his eyes wide and his voice sounding truly pained. Then he appears to melt; his eyelids slide closed, his head sinks forward and his forehead comes to rest against John's shoulder. 

_‘This is new’_ is all John can think. He stays there patiently waiting for this all to be explained. It is the only strategy that has kept him sane existing in proximity to the world's only consulting detective. 

Sherlock's mess of dark curls is tickling John's cheek with a scent that reminds him of his grandfather's best pipe tobacco; a rich, warm, earthy scent that harbours something faintly sweet in its undertones. It takes him a moment to realize Sherlock is trembling against his shoulder; his breathing heavy and harsh and his hands still fisted in the collar of John's jacket. 

The night from a month ago, the one he tries very hard to put out of his mind for both their sakes, plies its way to the front of John’s mind. Sherlock was clinging to him, as he is now, though then the younger man had latched on to his leg. His warm breath had sent goosebumps up John’s skin as he confessed to having a dark and demented mind that only John could quiet. He had confessed a lot of things that night that left John wondering what demons he was constantly trying to outrun by pouring so much of himself into _The Work._

Feeling Sherlock's body shudder against his own and listening to him struggling for breath now, a cold realization of what is really going on settles into John's chest. He used to have anxiety attacks like this all the time when he first came back from the war. Any little thing could trigger it. It's no wonder, really. Sherlock rarely eats or sleeps; both which contribute to the likelihood of a panic attack. Add on top of that how worked up he seems to be lately and some past trauma and you have a perfect formula for a breakdown.

John brings his hands, still held like he is in a stick-up, to rest gently on Sherlock's upper arms to ground him in the here and now. Sherlock doesn't tense to this touch, but sinks a little deeper into his shoulder, his breaths starting to even and slow.

“Sherlock-” John begins softly, 

“No,” Sherlock interjects. His muffled growl is clear and sharp. He twists his hands a little in the fabric of the coat. John sighs and starts again

“Sherlock, just -”

“Shut up, John.”

“You don't even know what I'm going to say.”

Without lifting his head, Sherlock pushes forward more as if to bully John into silence. When John opens his mouth to speak again, Sherlock cuts him off, “You are going to suggest that I am having an anxiety attack, but that is _idiotic_.”

“You're shaking and having trouble breathing.”

“A perfectly adequate assessment of _some_ of the facts, but still absurdly ignorant of the complexities of the full picture-”

“They are not that uncommon-”

“At this juncture you are going to try to convince me, with some ridiculous babble that you no doubt picked up from your sham of a psychiatrist, that anxiety and panic attacks are a normal response of the body to a situation that it perceives as dangerous.” His voice becomes a hiss, “I am _fine_ , John. As ever, you _see_ but don't _observe_. Panic attacks are an emotional reaction causing physical symptoms. I’m a high functioning sociopath. I. Don't. Do. Emotions.”

“Right,” John slumps a little and thinks to himself _‘yet they seem to be doing you.’_ As if he hears these thoughts, Sherlock growls and twists his fists tighter so the fabric now pulls on John's neck. If Sherlock presses any closer, John is certain he will imbed himself into the ex-soldier's chest cavity. As it is the rough texture of the brick is digging into John's back. Sherlock’s breathing is becoming irregular again. 

_If he won't address it head on then it will have to be a matter of distraction._

John clears his throat and puts on a calm, even tone. “Well, Lestrade thinks you're plotting my murder.”

“Idiot,” Sherlock mutters from his hunched position.

“Don’t know… Dragging me into an alley and pinning me to a wall, I’m inclined to agree.” Sherlock huffs. “Thought you'd be a bit more creative though, being a genius detective and all.” Sherlock’s back and shoulders straighten slightly as if resuming the consulting detective persona. His head remains planted against John's shoulder. 

“If you intended to kill me, hand-to-hand combat is really _not_ the way to go,” John continues conversationally. “I believe I'd have you bested there.” Sherlock chuckles darkly against John's shoulder. Encouraged, the ex-soldier continues, “I would have tried to go easy, but with my _vast_ skill and experience…” Sherlock sighs with exasperation and John can almost feel his eye roll. He pulls his head up and looks John in the eyes. 

“I'm hardly helpless, John,” Sherlock asserts. “One would _have to be_ skilled in the art of self-defense to do the work I have done,” he states matter-of-factly.

John gazes into his eyes, taking the opportunity to evaluate his state. 

_Eyes are not cloudy like with morphine, nor manic like cocaine. He looks tired, sad and uncharacteristically open. Not drugs, then. Just fear._

John makes a sound of consideration and lets his eyes run over what he can see of Sherlock in such close proximity as if weighing the merits of his argument. 

“I caught you off guard, didn't I,” Sherlock drawls, pushing his knee up more firmly and leaning in. 

The ex-soldier does not bother to squirm. He puffs out his chest a little and makes a show of tensing the muscles in his arms that are holding Sherlock's shoulders. “You've lost the element of surprise now. You'll want to remember that the last time we had a row in an alley, I had you flat out and all but begging for mercy.” 

“I never beg, John,” Sherlock asserts. The doctor lifts a knowing eyebrow.

“Wasn't even using my dominant arm,” he remarks with a smirk. Sherlock’s eyes narrow and he tips his chin up slightly.

“To inflict permanent damage was never the intention. I, of course, was showing restraint as well.” 

John grins, only partially because of Sherlock's indignation and the other part for him now showing none of the previous signs of panic. 

“Well, if that's the way you want to play it, I suppose it _is_ your murder to plot,” John shrugs. “Seems I’ll just have to wait to be proven wrong when this _surprise attack_ is finally launched.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock says tightening his lips as his eyes flash with mirth.

John grins mischievously. “You seem like a decent fellow, I'd hate to have to _kill you_.*”

A smile tips Sherlock’s lips and he feigns a shrug. “You seem like a decent fellow, I’d hate to have to _die_.” John’s smile grows. 

He feels more than a little smug that of all things Sherlock deigned _too irrelevant for his hard drive,_ his begrudging viewing of _The Princess Bride_ on a sleepy Sunday two weeks ago had _not_ been among them. Although John pointing out that Vizzini reminded him of _‘someone’_ when he was rapidly laying out his reasoning during the ‘iocaine powder’ scene and then pointedly looking at Sherlock when the man in black revealed the poison was in both cups may have cemented movies as having some value beyond pleasure. 

_Yeah, apparently serial killing cabbies get their methods from 80’s kid movies._

He gives Sherlock's arms a reassuring squeeze before pushing forward and slipping out of his grasp.

“Come on then. If you're determined to take me on _man to man_ I'd best feed you up. Can't have you fainting on me. I hate for people to die _embarrassed_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *If you haven't watched the [Princess Bride ]()movie then it is worth a watch - just remember it was the 80's - so set your expectations accordingly. It has some really witty dialogue and a [fight scene](https://youtu.be/lC6dgtBU6Gs) that is well worth checking out. The mentioned [iocane powder scene](https://youtu.be/U_eZmEiyTo0) is something I have always wondered about since I saw The Study in Pink. The last line of this is also a reference to another [fight scene!](https://youtu.be/lC6dgtBU6Gs)


	4. Purple Sheets and Weighted Blankets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John plans to go on a date, Sherlock tries to figure out how to stop him from going.  
> The situation takes a dramatic turn when Sherlock doesn't understand his own reactions to John and panics. John’s rescue puts them in an intimate situation.

He doesn't flinch. It takes a lot to make John Watson flinch, but there is an expression of surprise mixed with curiosity and a hint of concern that flickers over his face as his eyes snap around the room in an assessing manner, then come to rest on Sherlock regally perched on the sitting room couch, wrapped in nothing but a sheet. The late afternoon light is warmly slinking in through the windows, making his smooth, porcelain skin glow in sharp contrast to the dark purple cotton sheet wrapped around him like a royal robe.

“Are we expecting to make another visit to the palace?” John inquires lightly. “I know that's _your_ preferred attire,” He gestures at Sherlock then looks down at himself. “But I rather think I might like to have a change into something a little nicer.” He pinches his gray and white plaid button down between thumb and pointer finger and holds it out, looking at Sherlock with his head tilted and his lips quirked in an amused _’do I look alright to meet the Queen’_ expression.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and huffs. “Hardly, John.” His eyes rake over his flatmate from head to toe. “And we both know you haven't much better.” The sharp edge of irritation in his tone isn't all put on this time. What Sherlock purposefully redacts from his retort is that he is well aware that John is wearing what he considers to be among the best of his shirts because he, in fact, _has a date tonight._

Sherlock can't put a name to the way this makes him feel; a queasy sort of swooping sensation like being kicked down a long, black hole and waiting to hit bottom. 

Once he had deduced that John was preparing for a date, completely on impulse, he had stripped down, dug out the dark purple bed sheet from his wardrobe (a color he knew complimented his skin color) and wrapped himself in it. He marched out to the sitting room and planted himself dead center. 

As he stood there, waiting, feeling rather like a sacrificial lamb, the reality of what he was doing crept over him with little fingers of terror caressing him up his bare legs, chest and spine. A sharp, phantom pain shot through his genitals, groin and out his back side and he nearly doubled over. He stumbled, rather inelegantly, to the couch and flopped down. When he heard the latch of the bathroom door he'd barely had time to pull himself together, flipping on the computer on the table in front of the couch and straightening his posture, before John stepped into the room.

Even from the couch Sherlock can smell the appealing mix of soap, aftershave and the earth and minty scent that is uniquely John. There is a strange, achy sensation in the center of his chest and he rubs at it absently as he leans forward to type on the laptop. He purposely allows the sheet to fall open so that the long, white column of his neck and a small v of his chest is exposed, highlighted by the nest of deep purple it resides in. He is aware that John spends a disproportionate amount of time gazing at his neck. This _could_ indicate a potential attraction to that feature.

John’s gaze lingers on Sherlock. A small flicker of something, difficult to discern from Sherlock’s peripheral vision, crosses his expression. He licks his lips and clears his throat. He angles his body towards the door, apparently reconsidering his original intention to leave early to do some errands prior to his date. Then, he strides into the sitting room and settles into his arm chair. He picks up his newspaper and casually begins to look through it. 

_Posture alert. Body is angled towards me. Watching me out of the corner of his eyes. Good. You have his attention; now maintain control. How do we keep him?_

_How to keep him? That is the question. There doesn't seem to be a way to do so without significant risk._

Sherlock considers his options. He is passably skilled in the art of deception that is _flirting._ He has occasionally found it a necessary tool for cases. It smooths the way, opens previously locked doors and makes people that otherwise would not be helpful relinquish useful information. However, he considers that attempting to turn that skill on John would be dangerous in more ways than one. 

He’d told John he remembered what he’d said the night he was drugged by Irene, but the truth is it remains fragmented and unclear. He can’t quite make the pieces fit and he doesn’t know what is being asked of him. 

>   
>  _”Please, Sherlock… Sex… love and care for each other… beautiful and wonderful… _really_ good… as close as you can get to another person… romantic… sentimental… like that… true… I hope... a chance to show you that some day, Sherlock.”_  
> 

The irony is not lost on the detective. He needs John to solve a _‘John problem’._ The detective is excellent at the _how_ and the _what_ of things. He can deduce the miniate of intricate details that are solid and quantifiable, but when it gets down to the _why_ , when it becomes a matter of discerning motivation, well that is not really _his area._ That is what he has John for. The doctor understands people and emotion. The kind of common sense analysis that some situations require is not so common to one consulting detective whose brain simply does not work _that way._

He is right there across the room, but Sherlock knows that he can’t simply ask him for the missing vitally important information about what exactly he wants. 

_If it is sex, is it a one time encounter just to show him what he is missing? Is it a long term arrangement that would preclude John needing to seek fulfillment elsewhere? Is it an offer for a relationship, whatever that might mean?_

All of these are equally terrifying, which is why Sherlock spent the last month and a half (when he was supposed to be _considering_ John's proposal) doing his best to ignore any thoughts about it. Aside from one moment of weakness that left John with the false assumption that he was plotting his murder, he thought he was doing admirably well. 

A flirt is a suggestion or a promise of something more. When done with a stranger, there is no real risk in it. If they seem interested and Sherlock effectively uses that interest to get what he needs from them, he then has no trouble walking away. He feels no guilt for his false intentions. However, John is clearly interested in something more with him and once he reciprocates with blatant flirting then the expectation will be that he has accepted whatever proposal John made. There will only be going through with it or revealing the flirting as a ruse just to keep John from dating. Either path will have significant consequences. 

_No. Flirting is not an option._

Still, it appears John has no intention of waiting around to see his potential romantic interests drag their feet. He is going on a date and if, by some small but not impossible chance, this one happens to be tolerant enough of the things John needs to slip into a long-term relationship status, Sherlock’s chance at whatever John is offering will be lost forever. He has no doubt it is _critical_ to stop this date.

“So, anything on this evening?” John inquires casually interrupting Sherlock’s internal debate. Sherlock spares a look from his computer screen to take in his flatmate’s attentive posture, the slight strain in the corner of his eyes as his gaze sweeps across the paper in his lap, not really reading anything, and the tension radiating from him into the room making the air feel full of static. 

Sherlock opens his mouth to deliver a scathing retort about how he, unlike John, has the self respect to not participate in some archaic courtship ritual in a pathetic attempt to throw himself at a potential mate (an argument that would have been better supported if he wasn't sitting there in nothing but a sheet) but he is stalled by a low sensual moan that comes from the vicinity of the kitchen. Both their eyes dart to Sherlock's phone sitting on the kitchen table. John twists in his chair to glare at it. 

Sherlock feels John's eyes slide back to him and there is a heat in them now; a protectiveness. The sheet-clad younger man straightens, keeping his eyes locked on the phone.

With that look from John, for the first time he feels a potential advantage in this situation. He sees a workable plan.

He doesn't quite understand what irritates John so much about Irene. Her passive aggressive attempts to engage Sherlock are, of course, blatant manipulation. She has only one weapon in her arsenal, her sexuality, so of course she tries to turn it on her one worthy adversary. He has never reciprocated but each new text message from her over the past month and a half has elicited an increasingly protective look from John. 

This look is the fiercest yet. John looks positively livid. Sherlock can only guess at the kind of connections that are forming in John's emotional brain considering that the day Irene had drugged him had begun similarly, with the detective faffing about in nothing but a sheet.

_Time to press the advantage._

Sherlock draws himself up to his most dignified stance and, holding the sheet around himself, saunters past John into the kitchen. He is aware John is hardly breathing. His eyes seem to be tracking the flash of his marble white legs against the dark purple of the sheet with each step. The doctor has seen Sherlock's bare legs before. He has also seen him in a sheet before, but the look on his face now tells Sherlock that this is very different. 

He ponders if there is something sexual about the hide and seek flash and slide of limbs among dark sheets; some memory or fantasy that would account for the flush crawling into John’s cheeks. Sherlock smirks knowing that even if he can't keep him here tonight at least that image will be rattling around his head all evening as he tries to focus on the innate prattle of his chosen companion. That feels like a small, if slightly bitter, victory.

He stops at the table. As he stands with his back to John, he picks up and flips his phone over in one hand with a toss. The other hand holds his sheet at his chest and he lets his grip on it loosen just enough for a shoulder blade to show. A peek of stark white nestled between the jet black of his hair and the dark purple of sheet. _Not a blatant flirt; surely it can pass as accidental_

What the text says is of little consequence. Sherlock has already prepared his reaction. Thus far the messages have been empty innuendos, lacking any substance. However, Sherlock falters a second, nearly dropping the phone at the timeliness of this particular text.

> John’s blog is HILARIOUS. I think he likes you more than I do. Let's have dinner. 

Sherlock’s head swirls with a sudden shift in perspective. Before the day Irene drugged him he never would have believed that John liked him in _that way_. Upon seeing John for the first time Irene had implied, _none too subtly,_ that John loved him. He still can't remember anything but fragments of that night, but it seems like John might have said something to confirm her assertion and then he apparently proposed some sort of shift in their relationship. Irene had clearly forced John's hand into confessing his attraction and now it seems fitting that she is going to provide him the lever to pry John away from some succubus tart that hopes to bed then wed him. She is proving to be a valuable tool. 

Sherlock proceeds with his plan and lets a warm chuckle roll from his chest. He smiles down at the screen, thumb working in what would appear to be an effort at one-handed texting as he walks back to the couch. He sits down and pretends to hit send with his thumb. He sets the phone on the table, staring at it with a small smile just a moment longer than necessary before turning his eyes to the computer screen again. 

After a second of consideration, John clears his throat with an air of irritation. “So…” He drawls.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock gives John an innocent, questioning glance as if he's forgotten they’d been talking. He is not disappointed by what he sees; a burning possessiveness thinly disguised with annoyance and exasperation.

John folds his newspaper a little roughly and puts it on his table looking at Sherlock more pointedly. He looks down for a moment and when his eyes come back to Sherlock their expression has changed. They are decisive and determined. He smiles warmly.

“How about you put some clothes on and we'll go to Angelo's and grab a bite. No case on; no excuse not to eat.” 

Sherlock bites back the urge to smile and directs his eyes to his phone so if his sudden rush of joy seeps through it can be interpreted as directed at Irene's messages instead of revealing his ruse. He waves a hand dismissively in John's direction.

“Getting dressed is... _boring_ … besides, you appear to be going out.” He shoots his flatmate a hard, challenging look. They both know the choice John has to make here.

John pauses, sitting back a little, then he smiles and makes a quiet snort. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and begins typing in earnest. 

“Takeaway then? Chinese?” Sherlock ducks his head and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth to try to hide the upward curl of his lips. 

_John is staying. He is blowing off his date to stay!_

Something in his stomach appears to be doing flips and he smooths his palms down his bare chest and abdomen watching them quell the distress. When he looks up he finds John is watching him carefully; mouth slightly agape and eyes dark and full of a different kind of heat that sends a pleasant skittering of electricity up Sherlock’s spine. 

John clears his throat and looks away. “Indian?” His voice is deeper than usual and frayed on the edges. 

Sherlock feels as if he is plummeting down a long dark hole again. The sensation of fear that swept over him as he stood waiting for John to emerge returns with renewed intensity making his thoughts scatter like _Blattella germanica_ (cockroaches) when the light switch is flipped. He is suddenly fearful of where this is all going.

“I - I don't think I can…” Sherlock stops. He takes in the profile of John in his chair. The afternoon light catches in his eyes making his dark blue irises appear to sparkle. He can hold such warmth and concern in those eyes when he looks at Sherlock. 

_This is John. John is safe. He is kind and caring and he can be incredibly gentle._

Sherlock takes a deep breath to steady himself. That something in his stomach that was doing somersaults has now spread out like an octopus, its tentacles reaching out and pulling Sherlock’s insides in on themselves so that they are aching painfully. He feels certain if he can make John smile that ache will go away.

“Maybe that thing with the peas that you make?” Sherlock offers casually. John’s sudden warm smile is radiant. The creature relents, retracting its painful hold and dropping low, like a hot stone, into his pelvis.

“Shepard’s pie?” John blinks slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that, Sherlock.” John stands and begins to remove his shirt as he always does with his nicer clothes to protect them from the hazards of food preparation. There is nothing overtly sensual about the way he unbuttons his shirt, except that he is staring steadily into Sherlock's eyes as he does so. 

That _something_ that had dropped into his pelvis is coiling tight now, feeding off the heat and tension in John’s gaze. It reaches up, twisting into his chest, and he can feel his lungs growing smaller as it wraps itself tight, filling up his entire chest cavity. His mind flits through various forms of known parasites and tries to quantify their projected growth rate in comparison to whatever is increasing in size exponentially and writhing through his insides. He feels it snaking one long tendril down to curl through his groin, making muscles fire and clench in protest to the intrusion.

As John gets to the bottom buttons he finally breaks eye contact to look down and pull his shirt out of his trousers. Sherlock stops breathing altogether as the t-shirt underneath his button down rucks up revealing a flash of light brown abdomen and a line of hair, darker than the sandy color of the hair on his head, trailing down the center of his body and disappearing into the top of his trousers. The creature inside him writhes and cinches tight, everything moving at once in a dizzying frenzy of sensation.

Sherlock tries to catalog the sudden onslaught of sensations. The curling of that searing, hot serpent tangling itself through his muscles, around bones and squeezing vital organs. Things shattering and hemorrhaging from the pressure. Heat eviscerating his insides, the chemical cascade confusing pain for pleasure, sending little electric shocks radiating through him. Tension in muscles he'd forgotten he had as his body tries to contain the damage. Swelling as blood pools form in his lower half from what must be internal bleeding. Blood rushing away from the brain so fast that his vision is going gray.

_Most certainly dying._

The room is spinning. His head sags forward and he feels himself sway from side to side and suddenly John is beside him, guiding him back to lay down on the couch. He is staring up as the doctor hovers over him, filling all his vision. There is alarm in that expression. His lips are moving but Sherlock can't hear him over the thunder of his own heart. He can't move. His body is not his own.

“Joh-” Sherlock struggles to find air to force the words out. His heart is racing like the worst of his close calls with a drug overdose. It can't take the strain a moment longer. It's going to explode. A little muted pop and he will be gone.

He is dying. He is certain of it. As much as he has continually thrown himself into the face of danger and as much as he courted death, even welcomed it in some of his darker hours, he really doesn't want to die _now._

He _is_ dying and all he can think is, _‘Please, John, save me.’_ Nothing really clever or profound there, just desperation. He knows his eyes are saying it; pleading for John, _his doctor_ , the man that has pulled him from the clutches of death _so many times and in so many ways_ to somehow save him from this invisible force wringing the life out of him. 

He can't breathe. The oxygen has vacated the room. “Air,” he chokes out desperately. His fingers claw frantically at his own bare chest. There is nothing to restrict it yet he feels something squeezing tighter and tighter just below the skin and he needs to pull it free. 

He is gasping and kicking and then John is on top of him like a warm, weighted blanket, pressing firmly down. 

Suddenly, he feels warm breath forcing its way into his lungs and his fingers are no longer clawing at his own chest they are scrabbling against the back of John's head, twitching against bristly hair and smooth neck and strong shoulders. Everything slows. The creature inside is unfurling from his lungs as John's lips lock over his and push another breath into him. Lips retreat and are moving just millimeters from his own. The gray clears a little from Sherlock’s vision and he can hear that calm, confident voice that is so familiar to him. 

“Take my air, Sherlock. Just breathe. It’s fine. You can do it, Sherlock. See, we are breathing,” John is murmuring. The soft lips close over his again and warm, wet air pushes into his lungs, gentler this time. He can feel it spread, infusing his blood with not just oxygen but bits of John; strength and devotion that makes the fiery, life-stealing creature dissipate like so much smoke. He is coughing it out, trying to rid himself of the poison. 

The lips press closer again. Only a slight push of breath this time. Sherlock is aware enough now to drink it in, inhaling as John exhales, greedily pulling all he can from John's lungs until John pulls back gasping himself. Sherlock’s fingers clutch him, trying desperately to hold him in place.

“Don't -”

_Don't leave me, John. You are air. You are life._

“Not going anywhere,” John reassures as if he heard the unspoken plea. “Right. Follow my breaths. I've got you. Breathe like me.” John takes deliberately deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. The warm air from his lungs fans across Sherlock’s face and he lets his eyes slide closed as he mimics John's calming respiration. 

Sherlock feels like he is floating now; not quite attached to the body that lies pressed under John. He knows it is safe though. John will protect it. _Has always protected it._ Flawed, defective and utterly useless vessel that it is, he can surrender it to John's care.

“Good. You're doing good, Sherlock. Just feel me breathe. Focus on that.” Sherlock narrows his perceptions in on John, letting the sensations trickle into his consciousness. 

The heat of him is pleasant, seeping through the thin barrier of the sheet. It settles into Sherlock's bones making them feel heavier. Most of the sheet was thrown aside and kicked off his legs when he thrashed around. He can feel the fabric of John's sturdy trousers brushing against his bare legs and the t-shirt he is wearing is soft against his exposed chest. All of him is sturdy and firm muscle, relaxed now, but still denser and more yielding against the sharp and boney planes of his own body. Their breathing has fallen into a steady volley, Sherlock inhales as John exhales; their bodies sinking and rising in gentle waves of expansion and contraction.

“Alright now?” John’s voice is steady but there is obvious strain. He is using his arms to try to keep his full weight off of the man beneath him. 

“Stay.” Sherlock sprawls his hands out on John's back and pulls down until he feels the doctor's arms give out and his full weight presses down, pinning his thin frame to the couch. John grunts, then sighs and the consulting detective can feel the hesitation. He can practically hear his companion’s brain churning; trying to suss out if he can justify lying on top of his (practically naked) flatmate. He feels John inhale deeply to begin his argument - that will surely end with John moving away; taking his warmth and calming presence somewhere not on top of Sherlock. Sherlock needs him to stay and his mind scrambles to find some excuse that will appease the doctor.

“Weighted blanket. Therapeutic device. Counteracts the need for sensory input. The pressure provides proprioceptive input to the brain. Releases the hormone serotonin. Calming chemical.” John lets out a long breath and stays still a moment; considering.

“So… I’m basically filling in for your blanket?” The jarring feeling of John’s body shaking against his own in laughter makes Sherlock suck in a deep breath before he begins to laugh too, recalling when he first invited John along on a case by telling him he was _filling in for the skull._

“Don’t worry, you’re doing fine,” Sherlock says still a little breathless; parroting his response from back then. “Twenty minutes, John,” he adds, thinking the time limit will put the doctor’s mind at ease. 

“Alright,” John chuckles and settles in on top of him, relaxing his body to fit Sherlock’s like a blanket draping over him. 

In 12 minutes and 39 seconds John is completely asleep. Sherlock listens to his breathing, slow and steady beside his ear, and wonders how it is possible that someone can be both the cause and the cure for the most severe pain in your life. 

It occurs to Sherlock that perhaps being intimate with John is like taking poison. Not quite deadly in small doses, though you certainly feel as if you might die when it takes hold. Perhaps if he builds up his immunity to situations like this with small, persistent doses, there will come a day when he can drink fully and not perish. 

He lets his eyes slide closed and lets himself feel the body pressing down on him. He lets himself consider how it will feel to have those now limp hands caress him with intention, purpose, desire.

Every time he feels his heart speed up, he backs his thoughts away and makes himself focus on the heat and the pressure of the body above him and how it blocks out the rest of the world. He falls asleep with his mind doing a slow waltz towards the idea of John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Your comments and Kudos keep me going - even if it's only to tell me to get moving on another chapter!**


	5. John. Just John.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock embarks on his experimentation to attempt to get comfortable with being close to John. To quote one reader effectively "seducing himself while seducing John."

Things proceed… fine... _initially_. 

Committed to his new experiment of attempting to acclimate himself to intimacy with John, Sherlock waits four days after the first incident to initiate contact. Exposure is the key; without threat or need of full engagement. He needs time - time to be close to John whilst observing and adapting his reactions at his own pace. It is a fine line to walk, but he tries to embrace the challenge as he would any reconnaissance for a case, and looks for the right opportunity to present itself. 

When John arrives home from the clinic dragging himself through the door with exhaustion clearly written on every feature, Sherlock is quick to recognize the proper conditions for his experiment. 

He shuts his laptop and moves to the couch. Fingers steepled under his chin, eyes closed, long body stretched out straight as an arrow in his pajamas and housecoat, he lays there, waiting. 

His heart threatens to wrench free from the fragile cage of his ribs at the mere thought of what he intends to do, so he stamps his anxiety down by focusing on the sound of John; the creak of the floor under his heavy, weary tread; his mutters and amused huffs as he encounters remnants of Sherlock's various experiments; his contented sigh as the aroma of the steeping tea drifts to his nose. 

_John. Just John._

When the doctor has at last delivered him a mug of tea, the awaiting detective allows him to place it on the table before he springs into action. He snaps open his eyes and swiftly reaches out to encircle his long fingers around John's thick wrist. He gently but persistently pulls the solid man over and down on top of his reclining body. 

John looks confused initially, but doesn't resist. He hesitates, bent over the taller man and trying to support himself with arms planted on either side of his friend’s thin waist. Giving him a sharp glare of impatience, he grabs John’s upper arm and continues to pull. The doctor laughs in that slightly higher and quicker cadence that means he is nervous, but throws his leg over into the gap between Sherlock’s outer thigh and the back of the couch. He keeps the other foot planted on the floor so he can hover his body over Sherlock's a moment. His warm, cerulean blue eyes are full of questions as they meet the cool grey-blue of Sherlock’s; shielded to be unreadable as he looks up at the doctor. 

“Weighted blanket.15 minutes,” he declares in a tone that brooks all argument. Then he uses his large hands spread on the broad back of the ex-soldier to draw him down until their bodies are flush. 

Without a word John sighs and resigns. In only forty six seconds he has relaxed into Sherlock; becoming a loose-muscled weight; his firmness yielding to form around the body below. He radiates a soothing heat and Sherlock listens to his companion’s breath slow into a more relaxed cycle. 

In nine minutes twenty two seconds the exhausted doctor has fallen into a deep sleep. He emits low-toned, steady breaths setting a soothing, rhythmic pattern that is only interrupted by sporadic interludes of snuffling, sometimes with a few muttered, half-formed words. 

_Stage 3 or 4 sleep. Difficult to wake. Perfect._

Sherlock verifies this observation by delivering a sharp prod to John's ribs with his fingers. John makes a muffled grunt but doesn't awake or even stir. 

Finding him suitably unawares, Sherlock takes John's right hand and lifts it to eye level. He inspects it carefully. In spite of being shorter and thicker than his own, he finds the fingers have a sort of delicacy that lends itself to intricate work; a surgeon's hand, made to move with swift precision. The skin is surprisingly soft, it is meticulously clean and he has well-trimmed, healthy-looking nails. Obviously John cares for his hands with the fastidious attention that one pays to a valued tool. 

He studies the intricate network of veins and muscles a moment, inspecting the knuckles that have the telltale signs of having been used to fight far more frequently than the average male. He can remember many times that those fists have saved him, and one where they made a rather jarring impact on his own cheek. He smiles as he turns the hand over and examines the palm, running a delicate brush of fingertips over the fading calluses on the trigger finger. 

Sherlock commits it all to memory, then closes his eyes. He recalls the doctor's touch on the occasions he needed to have some wound tended on his body. In those moments John would exude the quiet confidence of a man that knew and trusted his own skill. The touch was always careful and strictly professional but the doctor still had a tender kindness that radiated from every part of his being. It always settled over Sherlock like some subduing drug, swaddling him in a velvety, haze of warmth. Sherlock found he didn't mind that touch as he always has with touch from others. In fact he often pushed aside a small niggling feeling, something like loss, when those doctoring sessions concluded. 

This time Sherlock lets himself consider the feeling of John’s unfaltering, nimble fingers running through his hair. It is not difficult to imagine since the doctor has sometimes run an assessing hand over his scalp seeking out and determining the severity of head trauma following various encounters with criminals. 

Sherlock imagines the hands lingering; the pressure and the gentle scrape of nails on scalp in a soft, unhurried exploration. The doctor's highly competent fingers would easily find the pressure points that arouse the greatest pleasure and would exert pressure with pleasing firmness. 

_Passion. Desire. Anticipation. Want._

A sensation of warmth unfurls in Sherlock’s chest. He sighs and relaxes into his body's positive response a moment before allowing himself to push further. He turns his head into John's neck and inhales his unique scent and lets his mind move slowly towards the idea of a less chaste touch. 

In Sherlock's mind thick fingers turn more desirous and twine into his long curls, grasping and pulling ever so slightly at the roots as if to angle his head for a passionate kiss. Bolts of sensation skitter across his scalp, down his neck and shoulders, to the base of his spine. 

He tilts his head back into that imagined pull and feels the vulnerability in his neck being so exposed. He suddenly feels a thrumming in his head and chest like the world is warping around him with throbbing waves of distortion. His heart thrashes wildly against his rib cage with the intensity of this all too real new sensation in his body. 

_Vulnerability. Helplessness. Fear. Pain._

It is overwhelming - almost too much. But as his body bows, arching in a gentle upward curve, he feels the solid weight meeting against it; the heat, the unyielding pressure, the steady breaths pushing against his own more rapidly rising and falling chest.

> _”I've got you… Just feel me breathe. Focus on that.”_

Sherlock grasps for the memory desperately. He pulls it out and frantically replays it on an endless loop in his mind and his anxiety gradually abates. His heart slows to beat in rhythm with John’s. Their bodies rise and fall in a slow, rhythmic dance of give and take, as if they are fused into one being. The world retreats and he relaxes into sleep remembering John's soothing words, the sensation of the doctor's lips locked over his own and the calming force of John's air in his lungs.

He awakes some time in the middle of the night with John gone and an actual blanket on him.


	6. Ugly Jumpers, Not-Dancing, and the Failure of Blanket Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is becoming quietly addicted to John, and fighting hard to control stray thoughts that all revolve around his doctor.  
> John attempts to "blanket" Sherlock when he sees his companion's ill-mood and this results in awkwardness and increased sexual tension.  
> Lots of funny Sherlock snark throughout this chapter.

John is an excellent dancer. Sherlock knows this. He knows it with the certainty that he knows the doctor prefers to sleep on the left side of the bed, curled around a pillow, and that in the shower he always washes himself from right to left, saving his wounded shoulder for last. It is not that he has ever directly observed these aspects of John’s life, it is that the tells are all there, blatant as the softly rounded nose on his doctor's face. Obvious for anyone with half a brain. The fact that John hides that he dances well _(attempts to, anyways),_ like he hides those muscles beneath layers of plaid synthetic fabric and cheap, ill-fitting jumpers, is a travesty. 

No, it is an act of cruelty, in fact. 

_Sherlock loves dancing._

He ponders this as he lies curled up on the sitting room couch glaring morosely at the strong, compact man lounging in his chair by the fireplace. The man that has never danced with him; never so much as made a rhythmic shuffle in his presence. 

John shifts in his chair and sighs under the silent scrutiny. 

If Sherlock were in a fouler mood he might saunter over and rip that ugly, deplorable blue jumper right off the older man. He searches for a proper name for the color that is a muted grayish-blue, like dirty dishwater. Its pathetic existence does no justice to the strong frame it loosely clings to.

Sherlock hadn't thought it possible to hate a piece of clothing so vehemently, yet the fact that it obscures his assessment of the body beneath, that it is working to detract from what should be on display for all to admire and that it gets to lazily drape itself around John when Sherlock _does not_ makes him want to tear something to shreds.

He imagines the satisfying feel of the fibers of the jumper reaching the limits of their tensile strength, then breaking. The pleasing sound of it violently being rented right down the middle. 

_The fabric might be too tough._

 _The knife from the Cluedo board pinned to the wall will do._

_Move quickly and he won't have time to anticipate it._

Yes, he will rid the world of the abomination that is that jumper and John will have no choice but to either get better clothing or go naked. 

_Go naked? There is a thought._

Sherlock gets lost in that contemplation a moment.

_John standing there chest bare, remnants of the shirt hanging from his shoulders. Chest puffed out, rising and falling rapidly making the beautifully gnarled scar on his left shoulder dance._  
_That fierce look in his eyes._  
_That dangerous smile that is more of a closed-mouth snarl._  
_That muscle in his cheek twitching, the one that only makes its presence known when he is really angry or kissing someone deeply._

_What would John do next?_ That has always been the question with John. Sherlock can never quite predict the man. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes at his own banality and flips over to face the back of the couch. He curls himself up into a ball wrapping his blue housecoat tightly around himself.

John's wardrobe is just one of the many things that he used to not bother with but now he finds consuming his thoughts. As it turns out John Watson is less a poison and more a new drug. Persistent exposure to intimacy with John was suppose to make him immune to the effects but instead it is apparently addling his brain. Sherlock stopped cocaine and cigarettes cold turkey, so surely he can quit John with as much discipline. 

_Curse him and his bloody jumpers._

He had often considered John's wardrobe choice, though ridiculous, quite shrewd. He is not the cuddly-jumper-clad-teddy-bear _doctor_ , he is, in fact, a shoot-a-serial-killer-at-100-meters-without-hands-shaking _ex-soldier._ That he dresses like the former seemed like a clever disguise. However, that he wears that disguise even in the privacy of their flat with only Sherlock to observe the truth, is an annoyance if not an insult.

John Watson is a dangerous weapon. The metaphorical loaded gun, cocked and pointed straight at Sherlock’s head and logic be damned, but Sherlock has an abnormal attraction to danger.

Being in close proximity to John is like playing Russian Roulette where instead of bullets each chamber of the gun has a new mystery drug. Sometimes a look from John makes Sherlock’s brain accelerate and become a super machine, like with cocaine. John is, in this moment, a conductor of light. In other moments John makes his brain slow down, go quiet or derail completely; like morphine. Always unpredictable and often-

“Alright then. Get on with it.”

Sherlock looks over his shoulder at John who has put down his paper and is now scowling at Sherlock with clear annoyance.

“With what, John?”

“You've been staring holes in my head all bloody morning. Now you're ignoring me. I assume we are back to you plotting my murder? So I say, once again, get on with it Sherlock.”

“Don't be absurd, John.” Sherlock turns his head to face the back of the couch again. John's reminder about his perceived murder plot against his companion brings his mind back to the alley when he'd managed to pin the soldier. He'd had to fight hard to overcome the urge to kiss him then. 

From there naturally his mind tumbles to the doctor kissing him. Well, it wasn't _exactly_ a kiss. Technically it was more like mouth-to-mouth pulmonary resuscitation… but there were all the same base elements and from that Sherlock can extrapolate that kissing John will most likely be soft, warm and cause a state of tachycardia that would require a repeat performance of the doctor's resuscitation techniques. 

Just thinking about it is making his blood flow alter and things stir. He curls tighter.

He jumps like a tetchy cat when he feels the touch on his leg. Just a light tap from the doctor’s soft hands, but so unexpected he is left with goosebumps and a difficult to resist urge to shudder.

“Come on then, lay flat,” John encourages, flattening his palm against Sherlock’s outer thigh. Sherlock stares at the hand. It feels like it is searing through the thin layer of fabric, branding him. He shuffles his feet together uncomfortably.

“What, John” He snaps feeling irritation washing over him in equal parts to his frustration and… perhaps something venturing towards _fear._

_This could be a bit not good._

“Gonna blanket you… weighted blanket _thing._ ” John waves a hand around as if to grasp some awkward thought. “You're acting-” John halts, thinking better than to try to describe Sherlock’s perceived mood, which would no doubt result in a forty minute explanation of the proper way to deduce his flatmate. “Well, let's just say it's better than you being in a strop all day.” John starts to gently pull Sherlock’s leg towards himself so that the taller man will be flat on his back. 

“No,” Sherlock barks with more venom than it should warrant, but he is _very aware_ of this nearing a dangerous situation.

“Come on... I’ve seen it work on you... You haven’t slept for days…” John’s pull on the thin leg becomes more persistent now and Sherlock can see no way around it short of delivering a throat punch to his flatmate and making a break for the door. He contemplates this course of action for .03 seconds but ultimately resigns himself to being turned onto his back. 

He closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath as he lays flat, exposed, reluctantly surrendered to whatever his companion will do next. He is aware that there is an expression of mortification on his own face and he can’t bare to see or even imagine what John’s expression looks like. Contemplating what John might do in response (at least nine possibilities) is making his breath and heart-rate ratchet up to near hysteria so he tries desperately to keep his mind blank.

The silence stretches so long that Sherlock reluctantly opens his eyes to find John apparently frozen, his eyes resting on the prominent bulge at Sherlock’s groin. His face is contorted in some mixture of confusion and shock that makes Sherlock reconsider the throat punch.

“Yes, John, I am aroused,” Sherlock snarls with irritation. 

“Oh,” John says his eyes flicking away. “I just didn’t think…” He sucks in a breath through his teeth and rubs at the back of his neck his face flushing red. He takes a deep breath and swallows, straightening his spine like he is bracing himself for something.

“Ok…” His voice is calm and doctorly; all remote professionalism. “Well, it's… it's just a natural body function and not like I haven't seen my fair share as a doctor…” He looks Sherlock over, taking in his haggard expression; eyes wild and hair sticking out every which way. The fact that he can see any emotion at all in the usually enigmatic man is evidence of how tired and frayed he must be. Now Sherlock is clearly teetering between panic and anger. 

John's eyes clear as he pushes back his own discomfort. His voice drops lower and more soothing. “We’ll just ignore it and it'll go away after a bit once you relax,” John says with his confidence restored. He moves to lay on top of Sherlock and the brunet throws out a hand causing him to freeze.

“With you on top of me... it most certainly _will not,_ ” Sherlock growls.

Emotions fluctuate across John's features as he appears to wage an internal debate about what Sherlock said means and how he should react to the potential interpretations of that statement. The consulting detective watches for a moment, his anxiety beaten back by a surge of frustration.

_Idiot. What did he expect? Wearing that god-awful jumper and refusing to dance._

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes. 

“Fine,” he hisses. He flips onto his stomach. “I will lay _this way_ , and you can lay on my back and blanket me.”

There is a choked sound that makes Sherlock turn his head to look over his shoulder at his companion. John’s eyes have come to rest on the swell of his arse and he appears frozen again. That heat is playing behind his eyes again. 

“Yeah, no, that’s not going to work for me.” John scrambles to his feet and swiftly strides away. “I’ll make tea,” he says from the kitchen in a tight voice.


	7. The Gentle Devastation of Paired Particles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reaction to a tough case causes a big shift in relationship dynamics as Sherlock realizes he failed to take into account all the variables in his experiment in intimacy with John.  
> Sherlock Holmes needs John Watson but even scarier for the detective is the realization the John Watson needs Sherlock Holmes.

_And that is the end of it._

As Sherlock lies trembling, pinned beneath John's remarkably heavy lissome form, he is certain that the question of _‘is possible to accept John's proposal for some form of intimacy’_ is definitively answered. 

It is a resounding, _‘No.”_

Five weeks have passed since that first innocuous experiment and two since John’s aborted blanket attempt. 

_This time is different._

Five hours ago they had solved an extremely emotional case where a child had been taken. Three hours and twenty minutes ago they had apprehended the kidnapper that had been at large for two days but Sherlock can’t really call that a victory as the one thing that matters is that the child is dead; murdered shortly after taken. 

《~~~~~~~~》

The crime scene is horrific. The smell is never something one fully adjusts to but to see such a small body, bloody and broken, causes a revulsion deep inside the most hardhearted. There is a cold brutality to this particular scene that leaves even the most experienced of the homicide team visibly shaken. Even Sherlock feels the bile climb into his throat and when he turns to leave he finds himself staring directly into John's haunted eyes. 

_This will be fuel for many nights full of flashbacks for the ex-soldier._

An ache creeps through Sherlock’s entire body at seeing John reliving the trauma that brought him, broken and hollowed out, crashing into Sherlock's world those years ago. He feels the air forcefully ejected from his lungs as if someone has taken a baseball bat to his stomach and the consulting detective dashes out of the room, needing to flee his friend’s openly pained expression.

Sherlock is awash with disgust; for humanity and its idiotic and pointless cruelty, and for himself; for his failure to save the child and for bringing John into this life - a life of living nightmares that only further scars this good, honorable man's soul. 

From the first glance in the basement of Bart’s, Sherlock had seen John completely. He'd seen what kind of man he was; brave, genuine and exceedingly rare. He often likes to humor himself into believing he'd saved that ex-soldier who was clearly depressed and struggling with a psychosomatic limp but the truth is it had been selfishness, plain and simple, that made him draw John into his world. He had needed _something_ for so long. Something undefinable until the moment when John came through that door and he instinctively knew the ex-army doctor was everything he had never really expected to find. 

Sherlock has always hoped providing for his flatmate’s danger fix and delivering a new sense of purpose was a fair trade for the hell he occasionally _(well, far too frequently, to be honest)_ put the man through, but the scales have been slowly tipping against him for a long while now.

The realization that Lestrade isn't far off in thinking he is plotting John’s murder creeps over Sherlock like cold fingers of doubt. He is, in fact, killing the doctor by slow but persistent measures. Him and his twisted life are a poison that gradually eats away at everything decent and human.

John will have nightmares tonight and it is _because of_ Sherlock; him and his selfish need for his friend. 

_This needs to stop._

Sherlock’s mind is at war with itself as they travel home in silence. He knows, logically speaking, he should find some means of encouraging John to leave his side and assume a more stable and less traumatic existence, but practicality (certainly not sentimentality) seems to block this idea whenever he tries to anchor it in his mind. 

_John helps with The Work. John helps with everything. Sherlock Holmes needs John Watson._

He is deep in thought and automatically going through the motions when they trudge in the door of 221B. He hardly manages to remove his coat and scarf and toe off his shoes before John is pushing him to the couch.

The army captain assumes that air of effortless command that he so rarely calls upon but never fails to render all Sherlock’s usual safeguards inert and leave him defenseless and thunderstruck. He finds he has no way to resist the ex-soldier’s insistence on laying him back and covering him with his own body. The gentleness of the way John cups the back of his head, _like a lover,_ as he lowers him onto the couch makes something at the center of the younger man’s being snap and unravel. He feels lost, set adrift, unable to catch anchor on any sense of self beneath the ocean of John swallowing him up.

“Blanket,” John mutters lowering himself down onto Sherlock's boneless frame. His tone, full of authority and control, is so contrary to the language his body is speaking of raw, unguarded abdication of his power. Every muscle is wrought with tension, anguish, sadness and emotional pain. It sets the inside of Sherlock’s head whirling fruitlessly like the gears just can’t catch. 

_Too much. Too raw, too intimate. Cuts too deep. Feels like torture._

John nestles his face into the cushion above the taller man's shoulder and the thinner man feels the tremble in the body above him. There is such unspoken need in the way the ex-soldier wraps around him; more like a desperate hug than a simple passive blanket. John clings to him as if he is the only mooring in the world and he is holding on with all he has against a riptide that threatens to drag him away and pummel him to death against the sharp, rock cliffs of memory.

_Vulnerability. Fear._

Intertwined with John as he finds himself, there is no way to run nor hide and no possibility of ignoring the emotional assault. Sherlock wants to scream with the agony of it; how his companion’s pain reflects and amplifies his own internal havoc. The potent mix of guilt and despair makes each breath a desperate struggle against a growing weight in his sternum. Having John’s emotion on top of his own feelings (that he is trying desperately to beat down) is too much to bare. He feels powerless and, given the horrific events of the day, he cannot take any more of being incompetent, useless, failing. 

_Helplessness. Pain._

After eight minutes the little tremors subside in John. In twenty six minutes the doctor finally relaxes into a fitful sleep. 

Sherlock tries to restrain the quivering pulsing through his body; fearful it will wake the man sleeping above him. His muscles feel tense and tired, his brain is overwhelmed, but he forces his mind to seek a logical analysis, to define the variables that lead to failure of this experiment.

He had definitely failed to take all the variables into account. 

He always misses _something_. In this case his fixation on the barriers to physical intimacy had obviously failed to take into account the _emotional intimacy_ part of the equation. _A significant oversight._

This weight of the traumatized ex-soldier's trust in revealing such weakness grinds mercilessly through Sherlock’s carefully constructed walls of indifference. John is, in a way Sherlock has never seen nor understood possible before, naked and exposed. This strong, brave, honorable man is laying himself bare and seeking comfort _in him,_ of all people, and the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath knows himself to be eminently unqualified to be anyone's emotional support. 

_John Watson needs Sherlock Holmes?_

John's trust in him has always come with an uneasy swirling in his gut. Something he vaguely understands as _fear_ and _apprehension_ generally swells, filling him with an irrational compulsion to scream at his friend or list to him every twisted, selfish, demented thing he has ever done. 

_You idiot, how could you forget this? Loving people is like this. The gentle devastation. It is so much harsher; made unbearable when you **really** care, really need them, really want to be their everything. **This will break you.** _

Sherlock feels it building inside him. Wave after wave of fear crashes over him and his face becomes tingly, like pins and needles are being shoved in it all over. He gasps and tries to cry out to the doctor above him but the weight of him is so heavy and motionless that he is certain the man is, in fact, _dead_. He feels the coldness of him, like ice pulsing in his own veins and the horror of it makes Sherlock gag. 

_That is John. If John is dead then…_

A numbness has taken over him. Death is apparently contagious and the body above (the body that was once warm and tender John) has apparently infected him with it. It is creeping slowly through him shutting down his system. He can’t see straight and his vision becomes consumed by black spot. It moves down like a dark oozing liquid to his lungs and they sputter towards failure. He can't catch his breath as the blackness coats them like thick tar. The darkness concentrates at the center of his chest and he understands now. He is a dying star and his death can only be a black hole, a singularity, pulling everything into its dark center where nothing can escape and everything will cease to exist. His entire body hurts with the intense pain of slowly being sucked into a tight ball of all-consuming nothingness.

Gravity has shifted. His mass has increased. He can’t move. Things are closing in. The walls of 221B have collapsed. He needs to get out. He wants to escape but he can't. He is trapped and going to suffocate before the darkness tears him apart. Perhaps John is not dead, maybe he is stuck like Sherlock; held motionless... but he will be dead soon. He will be consumed too. In the nothingness John and him and all the bits and pieces of this life together will become concentrated, their atoms intermingling beyond distinction.

Sherlock’s mind tries to grasp at some salvation from this fate. He sees himself and John caught in each other’s gravity, orbiting, held together by the immutable forces of attraction, tumbling through the darkness towards that destructive nothingness. They are a particle-antiparticle pair. Perfectly matched, equal and opposite. And if John can escape the black hole event horizon as Sherlock falls in then the black hole will decay and at least one of them will be free. _John can end this if he can break free from Sherlock._

With all the energy he can muster against the massive gravity in his body he throws John off himself. 

The sleeping doctor hits the floor with a thunk, his lax body smacking helplessly against the hard wooden floor boards. He springs to his feet, his military training making him immediately assume danger and take a defensive stance; fists raised, head low, body tense, crouching and ready to spring into action. His sharp blue eyes scan the room until they come to rest on Sherlock huddled on the far end of the couch, practically curled in on himself. He has drawn his long legs up to his chest and has his arms wrapped tightly around them, making himself incredibly small. Terrified eyes peek over his knees under a fringe of black hair made curlier by the sheen of sweat covering him.

“What happened? Did someone hurt you?” John slowly pivots around again scanning the room for an intruder. Finding no one, he turns back towards Sherlock, looking him over. His whole body is trembling and it appears to John that his friend is in the throes of another panic attack. He relaxes his muscles as his mind clears a little of the fog of sleep and the adrenaline of a violent awakening. He recalls the events of the day and that he had been lying on top of his friend as a _weighted blanket_ before he somehow ended up on the floor. The doctor takes a step towards his friend and freezes when those wide gray-silver eyes disappear as the man appears to duck his head and protectively fold further in on himself. John’s heart leaps into his throat.

“Christ, was it me? What - what did I do, Sherlock? Did I-” John's eyes search over Sherlock’s frame for injury horrified by the idea of having harmed him in some PTSD fueled night terror. Finding no visual indication of physical harm but taking in his companion’s crumple, trembling form, John's face plunges into mortification. “Oh, God, I didn't -” he looks down at his own groin, fearful he had become aroused in his sleep and tried something sexually aggressive with the man pinned beneath him.

_Going over. Pulling in. Must push him away. Get him clear of the event horizon._

“Just stop!” Sherlock snaps, his voice harsh but as shaky as his body. He holds up a trembling hand swallowing roughly as he looks at the floor.

“It’s me - _me_ , John,” Sherlock croaks.“I can't deal with-” He waves his hand to take in all of John, _“this,”_ he hisses.

“Sherlock -” John starts to advance to comfort his obviously shaken friend. Sherlock scrambles away, nearly toppling backwards off the couch. John freezes, hands up and palms out. He swallows hard, choking down the hurt at his friend’s fearful expression - _fearful of him._

“I'm sorry… god, whatever I did… I didn't mean it… I'm sorry.”

Sherlock swallows roughly and forces himself to look John in the eyes. “I think it is time to stop dancing around the subject, John. We both know I am not capable of something like _this..._ ” He moves his trembling hand in the space between them. “I don’t feel things _that way._ ”

John blinks slowly at him and eases back, his arms lowering in defeat. 

“Ok. Alright, Sherlock…” His shoulders sink forward slowly. He looks down at the space between them then back up from beneath his eyelashes. “It-It’s fine… It is what it is.” He nods slowly. After a moment staring at Sherlock, looking a little lost, he turns and walks towards his room. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, his voice low and hollow. 

“I won’t - I won’t try to do that… the _blanket thing_... again, Sherlock. I promise.” He waits a moment and when he hears no response he gives a stiff nod and ascends the stairs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter is a bumpy (emotional) ride. Not a particularly happy chapter but remember it is always darkest before dawn - and emotional growth is always a bit painful.  
> Hang in there. Better days to come for these boys.


	8. Break Pads, Boxing and the Unmaking of John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are two sides to every story. This is the slow slide of John Watson towards Sherlock over the events of the last five and a half weeks.

When John was 16 he inherited a car from a distant relative that passed away. Truth be told, it was only given to him because no one else wanted it. Just a rusty, old, beat-up junker with nearly 320,000 kilometers already on the odometer, but as his first taste of freedom it was exhilarating and for that reason alone he cherished it as something glorious. 

The car, being older than the boy himself, was bound to have some quirks that required accommodation. Inexperienced and grateful for what he had, John readily adapted himself to these with little thought or complaint. 

_It is what it is. ___

Some of it had been immediate; broken window cranks, no heat, it jiggled at high speed and the car needed a certain distance to stop. John noted this and adjusted accordingly. 

However, subtly over weeks and months of driving, the car required a bit more space, a bit more time, a bit more distance between it and the car in front of it to safely stop. It all progressed so quiet and unobtrusively, requiring only a little more of him each time, that he did not give it any thought.

_This is his car. It needs what it needs._

In time, he was scanning far ahead of himself; anticipating and planning for any stops or obstacles well before they arrived. Driving was an exercise in hypervigilance which John, growing up with an alcoholic father that had a tendency to be a mean drunk, was well practised at. It wasn’t until a mate borrowed the car for a quick trip to Tesco that it was brought to John’s attention how dangerously skewed his driving experience had become. 

“What the fuck, mate? Those brakes are seriously dodgy!” the friend had said hurling John’s keys back at him with a harrowed expression. John had flinched and felt a wave of guilt. 

_This could have ended poorly. Somebody could have got hurt._

A trip to the car shop confirmed that his brake pads were nearly non-existent; it was metal against rubber. The mechanic scoffed at John, “You ain’t got nothin’ left. Miracle you di’nt hurt someone!”

_How did it get that bad?_

It was a dark realization for the young man that any other person probably would have noticed immediately but instead he had been completely oblivious and just soldiered through as everything went to hell. That was more than a _bit not good;_ it was bloody pathetic. _Normal people_ probably didn't do that. 

John realizes, far too late, that falling in love with Sherlock is like that. Not a bolt of lightning or a moment of revelation, certainly not a clear decision on his part, but the subtle slide towards something he wasn't looking out for. 

The concessions were so small, so incremental and insignificant in their own insidious way, that he had just naturally adapted until the moment when all that vitally important padding of “I’m not gay” and “we’re not a couple” were degraded to the point of no return and he found himself careening down the road full tilt with no way to possibly slow or stop the inevitable crash. 

\------------------------------

> _It is what it is._

The thought had sprung up in the back of his mind as Sherlock had pulled the doctor down onto himself that first time.

Sinking into that warm body of his trusted friend hadn’t seemed so odd after the panic attack that had been utterly terrifying to witness. John had suffered attacks like that and he felt the memory of it as an empathetic pulse of pain in his own chest when he saw the terror in Sherlock’s eyes. 

The fear and hysteria were startling to see on his companion’s usually enigmatic face. As Sherlock thrashed around trying to free himself from his body’s efforts to convince him he was dying, John's mind naturally slipped into that _‘crisis mode’_ that he’d cultivated in his years as an army doctor. Calm determination flooded his system as he threw his body onto Sherlock’s to keep him from tearing at his own flesh. 

When he’d found himself with his lips over Sherlock's mouth forcing air into his lungs, that had seemed natural too. This type of resuscitation was not completely foreign to the doctor, though using it on someone having a panic attack was hardly conventional practice. John had done it on instinct. Soldier and doctor calm he had given his frantic friend the only thing that he possessed to convince him that he could breathe; air from his own lungs. There wasn’t any question about it; his friend was falling off a cliff and he was going to pull him back. He would keep Sherlock alive even if he had to breathe for both of them. 

His training forced into the background the hum of his own body at the recognition of how plump and soft the lips captured beneath him were and he ignored the fire skittering along his nerves at the sensation of Sherlock's long, violinist fingers playing a frantic tune across his shoulders, neck and the back of his head. With practiced discipline he had boxed it, categorized it and shoved it firmly away as not relevant to saving the life before him. He was accustomed to doing this with any stray thoughts and emotions during a crisis. 

_’Survive and save lives now; panic later,’_ he reminded himself. 

The way Sherlock had come back to life and sucked the air from his lungs had nearly stopped the doctor's heart. _’This is new’_ his mind offered dumbly. Suddenly it was more than keeping his good friend from hyperventilating, it was Sherlock Holmes trying to drink him in and that, like everything to do with the marvel of a man, was something earth-shattering in its fervent intensity. 

It took John far too long to decide he should break away; feeling somewhat faint as he drew back. He suspected he couldn't blame all that floating sensation on the brief oxygen deprivation. But the panicked way in which Sherlock grabbed at him and seeing the normally so articulate man not even able to complete a sentence, squeezed John’s heart.

He was at once aware of both his friend's continued state of distress and the nagging concern that some important boundaries were being crossed. His words of reassurance were as much for himself as the still distraught man beneath him as he tried to coax them both into breathing normally again. 

When Sherlock uttered _‘Stay’_ in a voice that was broken and vulnerable, so alien to the typically cool, calm and apathetic man, John felt his objections ground away. He didn’t want his friend to suffer alone. 

The spread of long fingers across his back threatened to break him out of his calm. With no space between them and the immediate danger gone, John became aware of the feel of the body beneath him even as his own naturally moulded to it. His brain faltered for a moment as his senses took in the long, sinewy bare legs, quivering and twitching slightly underneath him, and that leanly muscled, naked chest heaving and shuddering against his own. He felt those fears and concerns leaking from their hastily constructed container and pulling him towards confusion and apprehension.

Before John could form a proper objection, Sherlock admitted, in his off-handed and round about way, that he was neurodivergent and everything came into focus for the doctor. Asperger’s made so much sense to John given the man’s obvious strengths and weaknesses.

He firmly re-boxed his own misgivings and tucked them away. The doctor side of John couldn’t deny his companion some reprieve from the constant, unfiltered onslaught of sensory feedback. After what he just went through with the panic attack, that would be downright _cruel._

He had shot a man for Sherlock, he regularly chased him through countless alleys and abandoned buildings and threw himself headlong into the path of danger to protect him; was it really a big deal to be his blanket for twenty minutes? 

So, he joked it off, feeling the arresting vibration of Sherlock's laughter rumbling through him like waves of warmth. He surrendered to the easy, if unusual, companionship that existed between them.

It had felt slightly awkward to wake up draped over Sherlock some hours later, having somehow drifted off to sleep, but as Sherlock roused too and they both went about their normal activities, washing and heading to bed, John had left all those nagging concerns about the whole experience packed away and resolved not to think too much about it.

He did, however, find himself wandering through online articles about weighted blankets and Asperger’s syndrome the following day between patients at the clinic. He at last typed ‘Asperger’s and relationships’ in the search engine and, with fascination, poured over personal accounts of both people with Asperger’s and their partners explaining the ups and downs of being in a relationship specific to someone with Asperger’s. It was enlightening and some of it was also strikingly familiar.

\----------------------------

The second time hadn’t made as much sense. He was shocked when those delicate fingers closed around his wrist. Looking down into his flatmate’s silver-green-blue eyes while already feeling the welcoming heat of his body radiating out towards his own, he had, for a moment, suspected this was something else entirely. That surprisingly compelling thought and its corresponding tangle of emotions played at the edge of the doctor’s mind, but he boxed it in and held himself steady, unassuming, until Sherlock told him what was going on.

When it became clear that he was demanding the doctor act as his _weighted blanket_ again, John moved to hover over him but still hesitated. Sherlock was more likely to deny himself even basic needs than to outright ask for help, but John couldn't help but note that his flatmate didn't seem as if he was particularly agitated or emotionally overwhelmed and in need of something to block his sensory input urgently enough to recruit John to the cause. 

Sherlock’s eyes remained shielded but beneath their forced blankness John thought he saw a hint of uncertainty, confusion and impatient need. 

He felt a familiar mixture of fondness and exasperation at the realization that, in all likelihood, Sherlock failed to see any difference between John being his emergency ‘shock blanket’ during a crisis and insisting his companion stop everything and cover him when he was apparently just in need of a casual kip. Of course these types of implied boundaries and appropriate social norms would not be common sense to Sherlock.

John was aware that he had never corrected such oversteps before and so it would not make much logical sense to the detective for him to do so now. They both knew John was already caretaker to an unnatural number of the other basic needs of Sherlock's ‘transport’. He tended this man’s wounds, hauled his drugged arse home to put him to bed and regularly was the only thing ensuring he ate, slept and drank enough to sustain himself. Covering his companion for fifteen minutes to help the consulting detective have a short reprieve from his gigantic brain wasn’t a big leap.

> ’This is my friend. He needs what he needs.’

The doctor was indeed exhausted from a rather long day at the clinic and the idea of sinking into the warmth of another person wasn’t _unappealing._ So John surrendered _again_. 

It felt so natural now for his body to mould to his companion beneath him. Though he was the _‘weighted blanket’_ in this scenario, it apparently worked both ways. The world was being blocked out for him as well; everything fell away and it was just him and Sherlock. He tried resisting the siren call of sleep but there was something so comforting about having the man who was the biggest part of his world, the one person that had brought him back to life and given him purpose once again, right there underneath him as if he could keep that protected somehow even in the relative vulnerability of sleep. Knowing Sherlock was safe and he was safe with him brought a level of contentment he hadn't experienced before. 

He drifted into the feel of it, so warm and languid. As the soft darkness gathered him in and he felt consciousness ebbing away he thought wistfully that he couldn’t recall ever feeling so safe and accepted. Then sleep wrapped him in a comforting embrace. 

He awoke groggily, his first sensation being silky, soft curls tickling at his nose. Fighting consciousness, he inhaled deeply, taking in that warm scent that was so unique and yet had grown comfortingly familiar, like home. It felt natural to turn his head and bury his face further into those curls, nuzzling his nose against the soft shell of an ear and lips grazing faintly across a muscular neck.

“Hgon.” The answering grunt, sounding something like a moan of approval forming into his name, rolling from deep inside the lean chest pressed below him made him freeze and his eyes snap open, now fully conscious. 

“Sherlock,” he breathed as calmly as he could manage. He was alarmed at how this somewhat innocent situation had evolved and what he had been doing to his friend in his half-conscious haze. His heart was pounding erratically and his breathing was rapid. He waited with every muscle tensed as he tried to determine if Sherlock was awake and prepared himself to handle his reaction. 

The agonizing stillness and silence stretched around John with no change from his companion below. At last he took a deep breath and pushed himself up to gaze down at Sherlock. The flat had fallen dark, and the pale, thin brunet stretched out on the couch, deep in sleep looked so serene dappled in the faint orange light from the street lamps. 

His features were made young and innocent by his uncharacteristically tranquil state. The lines of concentration and attentiveness on his brow and around the corners of his eyes had smoothed and virtually disappeared. His surprisingly long, dark lashes fluttered against the pale of the skin of his cheeks and his breathing, deep and relaxed, barely disturbed the lean chest with its shallow rising and falling. Not a twitch nor a spasm from the usually frenetic man, such was the depth of his oblivion. This was a body totally at peace.

John’s own body ached to sink back down into that cozy quietude and security but he carefully extracted himself and silently padded to the bathroom to relieve himself. He paused to splash his burning cheeks with cold water from the sink; refusing to lift his eyes to meet his own reflection in the mirror. He didn’t want to know what he might find.

He quietly slipped back into the sitting room and stood gazing down at his softly sleeping companion. _Elegant_ was the word that came to mind as his eyes swept the body from the long nimble fingers to the high cheek bones. 

John tipped his head and pursed his lips, feeling something swell in his chest as his mind flooded with snippets of memory of watching that impressive figure sweep through rooms, dash down alleys and jump across rooftops with a striking poise and swiftness, all while wearing a tailored suit and posh shoes worth more than John's entire wardrobe. Even now, in his housecoat and pajamas the man had an undefinable grace about him.

If he was honest he'd always considered Sherlock attractive, but considered it to be objectively so. As a doctor, of course he could detachedly note fine examples of the human form. Sherlock was clearly amazing; his oddity beautiful in a category all its own. But knowing someone is attractive and _being attracted_ to him are different things in John's mind. And so too, in a vastly different category, is a willingness to _act on_ that attraction. Observing that someone had attractive features did not mean he would ever consider being with them. So when he noted his new flatmate had a certain appeal, he told himself it was only idle acknowledgement of inherent attractiveness. It was nothing sexual, it was just like recognizing fine art.

Generally when John noted that a man was attractive it was only in that slightly irritated or perhaps envious way that one notes things they wished they had been fortunate enough to be genetically allotted. He supposed it was just some primal sizing up of the competition. John’s thoughts had run squarely along those lines the first time he saw Sherlock. 

_‘I am never bringing a woman back to the flat with this guy around. Those cheekbones and eyes... the posh suit and those long legs. I’d be dead in the water.’_

That, as much as anything, had compelled him to ask about Sherlock’s relationship status that first night. He had hoped the man was engaged in a serious relationship. Then he had moved on to hoping he was playing for the other team because at least that didn’t put them in direct competition. 

When Sherlock had assumed John was trying to pull him and actually stated he was flattered by it, the thought had knocked the ex-soldier for a loop. Something completely odd came over John. 

Sherlock had been the first person that had looked at him and really seen him since he returned from the war. Before the injury his average looks had never been the type to garner a lot of fuss or interest, but with a kind smile and easygoing nature he had held his own romantically and at least people had looked him in the eyes. Now most people dismissed him out of hand. They looked away or right through him. Some were so afraid of staring they purposely avoided him. If people did look they could never see past the injury and so their eyes inevitably held pity, disgust or something near guilt. 

Most of the wounded ex-soldier’s efforts at restarting his love life had been met with as soul-crushingly dismissive and slightly disgusted rejection as Anthea had recently dealt him. He’d found himself having to be considerably more blunt because somehow the idea of a “cripple” being interested in getting a leg up seemed completely bizarre to everyone, as if his manhood had naturally shriveled up and fell off as well. He had concluded that in his current state it was hard to imagine anyone looking at his gnarled and lame body and even considering being with him sexually.

Sitting there across from Sherlock at Angelo’s, he had immediately started to bristle at being misunderstood by Sherlock but then he recognized the compliment buried in the somewhat timid rejection and he actually felt... _flattered._ This beautiful man assumed John was a virile male and considered the prospect of a relationship with him and that sent a thrill through John. It was such a welcome relief to be treated like a man again that John felt a rush of gratitude along with a much needed boost to his ego.

Of course, Sherlock had politely turned John down, but he’d done so in a way that, in all John’s experience, (admittedly only with women) meant _interested but just came out of some awful situation and thinks you’ve too much relationship potential to use as a rebound._ A little more time or effort was usually all that sort of situation required. A thought that made John’s head swirl. 

In that moment (and somewhat randomly and unexpectedly afterwards) John felt a tingling heat through his insides and buzzing on his nerves like something new and hungry was twisting its way to the surface.

As John stared down at the somewhat angelic figure sleeping on the sofa he struggled to box in that sensation that made his body hum like a live wire. It was growing stronger each time it returned. More than friendship, fondness or affection, yet different than raw lust or attraction. 

Sherlock gave a slight shudder, obviously missing the combined heat generated by their bodies and having his friend to act as a barrier against the cold night air. He suddenly seemed small, lonely and fragile. A familiar protectiveness surged in John’s chest; a need to keep this remarkable man safe from the world.

Memories flickered across his mind’s eye of all the vulnerable moments they’d shared in recent weeks; the night Sherlock had been drugged, the alley where the detective had pinned him and then had his first panic attack, the second panic attack, so much worse and yet even more intimate, then this evening where he'd basically cuddled the man to sleep. 

John found himself fighting a sharp pang of desire to lie back down on top of his friend and the enticing danger in knowing that, if he did, he wasn't sure what he might do next. 

He instead grabbed a blanket and slowly lowered it down over the sleeping man, carefully tucking it around his long bare feet. As he leaned over Sherlock’s head to tuck the blanket around his shoulders he felt an odd compulsion to kiss that forehead, obscured as it was by those dark curls that smelled so much like rich and slightly sweet pipe tobacco. He wanted to press his lips to the delicate eyelids covering those fiercely perceptive eyes. He wanted to properly taste those lips that spilled such amazing deductions… Startled by his own thoughts, he pulled away before his lips could betray him by seeking out that flesh. He turned on his heels and walked briskly upstairs, an uneasy feeling swirling in his gut and making it difficult to sleep the remainder of the night.

 

\----------------

> _How did it get this bad?_

Body deathly still, eyes wide, dark and flicking around rapidly in erratic patterns, jaw clenched. Sherlock looked frustrated. Irritated. Strung out. He hadn't slept for perhaps a week, as far as John could tell. He was staring at him from the couch with eyes that burned hot with anger. Then with an irritated grunt and huff, he flipped away onto his side facing the back of the sofa and John felt the draining of heat at the loss of his glare. That he turned away was almost more disconcerting to John than the uncomfortable, scrutinizing gaze that had been fixed on him all morning. The loss of that connection made the room feel colder.

He looked up at Sherlock, running his eyes along the curve of his spine; too prominent even through the sleep clothes and housecoat. _Got to feed him up more._ He was curled in a ball making pathetic little sighs. God he hated seeing Sherlock so out of sorts. He wanted his friend back; to joke, to smile and to laugh. He missed the comfortable companionship of their quiet moments. John adored Sherlock’s dark sense of humor and those brilliant little insights that always were pleasingly random. 

There had been a shift after their last _’blanket,_ and suddenly there were expressions John didn't understand and tense moments where it felt like they were both waiting for something to happen. John couldn't hand the man tea without waiting _[hoping?]_ for those fingers to close around his wrist and pull him down. 

Between those moments there were these type of moments; where the chill emanating from the consulting detective was almost tangible. John felt as if he had somehow done something terribly wrong and there was about to be violence or, at the very least, a very loud and vigorous row over it. The ex-soldier would have welcomed either of those things. It was like suffering through the oppressive humidity and building pressure on a hot summer day and praying for that violent but cleansing rainstorm to finally wash it all away. However, the shouting or the violence never came. Sherlock always retreated into his brooding silence as he had just now. 

If he was honest with himself, he felt just as on edge as Sherlock looked, and not just from his flatmate’s mood swings. He couldn’t get past the nagging impression that something was missing. There was this constant irritating and jittery sensation of something writhing right under his skin. 

John looked over the tall, gangly man, made small by his feotal position, and sighed in exasperation. Something had to give and, as usual, it was probably up to John. He breathed in and out slowly, his annoyance simmering below the surface. As difficult as he found these things, Sherlock likely found it near impossible to discuss any issue that may be at all emotive. He obviously needed something from John but he apparently couldn’t bring himself to ask, so it was up to the doctor to give Sherlock the opening. 

John put down the paper and tried to draw the pouting man out. He hoped that a reference to the discussion in the alley would relieve some of the tension and give Sherlock a way to express whatever frustration he was holding against the doctor. Sherlock just coldly brushed it off, turning back towards the couch and then, after a moment, curling himself even tighter. 

This self-protective gesture made John’s chest feel tight. He may not understand what went on in his friend’s head most the time, but he had found at least one thing that seemed to sooth him. He moved to sit beside Sherlock and only hesitated a moment before placing his hand on the brooding detectives leanly muscled outer thigh. 

As Sherlock stared at the hand on his thigh, the doctor felt the leg muscles twitch beneath his palm. The look in Sherlock’s eyes was wild in a way John had only seen when the man was in the midst of a panic attack. He resisted the urge to embrace his friend and comfort him before true panic took hold.

He was surprised by Sherlock’s adamant resistance to the _weighted blanket_ suggestion. Some grumbling was expected, for the show of it, out of pride or stubbornness, but this level of petulance and venom was not the standard. It was fairly obvious that he needed the calming effect that _the blanket_ provided. So John persisted.

It had been a shock when at last Sherlock rolled to his back and his arousal had been clearly on display through the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms. John's brain had ground to a halt as the man had just lain there, exposed before him like an offering; still and silent, stark black eyelashes fluttering over his slightly flushed pale cheeks, lips pressed into a tight line, a slight tremble in his tensed muscles. 

It took some time for the doctor to process this new bit of information. He had certainly tried to avoid thinking of Sherlock’s sexuality in their time together, with varying levels of success. What little information he had was vague, confusing and seemed to contradict itself. There was the _‘women aren’t my area’_ statement and the assuming John was hitting on him the first evening. Then there was Sherlock’s responsiveness to Irene, Irene who had stated that Sherlock _‘didn’t know where to look’_ when it came to women. That was obviously not completely true as he’d looked hard enough to gather her measurements. There was Mycroft indicating the detective didn’t know anything to do with sex, which seemed to contradict his friend’s own drugged confession that sex was painful and violent. Yet Sherlock had seemed naive, somewhat disdainful… even oblivious towards all things sexual.

In all their time together Sherlock hadn’t appeared to have any romantic partners and while he sometimes appeared to be flirting with either men or women, it was _always_ for a case. He didn’t even seem to pleasure himself from any indication John would typically have of such things. Though he supposed that it was ridiculous to assume that Sherlock didn’t do anything related to sex just because of a lack of evidence. If anyone was capable of being discreet and covering up evidence it should be the world’s only consulting detective. 

Then Sherlock snapped at John and he felt absurd because he had no idea how long he had been staring at the man’s erection like it was some alien appendage that may or may not attack. 

The present situation came back into focus and the doctor realized that he should say something... Something respectful of the fact that his friend had some trauma in this area and didn’t need to be made to feel ashamed about being a flesh and blood male that occasionally couldn't control his anatomy. All men had been _there_ a time or two. 

John tried to box up the discomfort of this entire situation and push it aside; focusing on the issue at hand. They are both adults and moreover John is a doctor. He had been in the army, afterall, where some blokes let it all hang out. He could handle _this_. 

Obviously his friend still needed to calm down. Some sleep would help. If Sherlock could just _relax_... The _weighted blanket_ always relaxed him. 

John moved to cover his friend in their now familiar arragement, but Sherlock threw up a hand and said John couldn't lay on him because the younger man would not be able to curb his arousal. John was set spinning again and found himself having a serious mental break trying to figure out what was going on.

_Did he just mean his erection wouldnt go away with_ anybody _on top of him or was it John_ specifically _?... Was he saying he was attracted to John?... Category 3, _'I would shag you,'_ attraction?... Did Sherlock even feel that way about people?... Hadn’t John encourage this? He had told Sherlock to consider sex and that it could be healthy and pleasurable. The younger man had said he would take what he said ‘under consideration.’... God, had this all started because he was aroused while looking at John? That's absurd, _right?_... Sherlock could have _anyone_. How long had they been living together?... He hadn't ever-_

All John’s feverent contemplations ground to a halt when Sherlock flipped to his stomach and invited John to lay on his back. John turned to look down at his friend and his eyes fell on that inexplicably curvaceous rear end on the otherwise lean and angular man. He fell back into his seat and a rather embarrassing noise escaped his throat as, _without his permission,_ his mind began to play out things that might happen with his own body pressed against _that._

That odd heat settled lower in his abdomen and suddenly he knew exactly what that feeling was building towards and what he would do if he let instincts take over. 

_And when did that happen? With a bloke? With his flatmate? With Sherlock Holmes?_

> _This is going to end poorly._

John fled as quickly as possible, seeking refuge in the familiarity of his tea making ritual.

\--------------------------

_The Afghan desert. A roadside bomb. A little girl’s mangled body._

These images consumed John like a thick, dark cloud as he stared at the crime scene.

 _The smell. The blood. The torn dress. Matted hair._  


He was tumbling; plummeting into his own personal hell. Then he was looking into Sherlock's eyes. Everything was understood. Sherlock always understood him. He saw him when everyone else looked away, looked through him.

Something of that warmth and safety from their _‘blanket’_ time together on the couch pulled him back from the edge. It was a haven. A harbor in the storm. He waited until they got home and then he surrendered to the need, pulling him down onto the couch. 

He was grasping at the quickly disintegrating threads of his self control as it turned to sand and blood and slipped through his fingers. There was Sherlock beneath him; heart pushing blood through veins to make his flesh warm and solid, lungs deflating and inflating rhythmically to carry the same air John breathed into his lungs. Yet the ex-soldier had the desperate fear that he couldn't hold on; that his companion was slipping away. He couldn't protect him. He too would end up like the young girl in the warehouse or the one in the desert, broken far beyond what his inadequate hands could patch back together. He felt his soul being dimmed and his spirit being weakened by this cold realization.

> _Somebody’s going to get hurt._

He clung tighter, his body shivering against the shock of understanding his powerlessness. He tried to push back that dark cold flood of fear and doubt; to fight it and wrestle back control like he had every day since he lay beneath an unrelenting sky and felt his life blood draining into the thirsty desert sand, but it was resurging. There was a slowly creeping sense of awful knowing; a knowing in his bones that other human beings now had the power to destroy him. It was not in killing or hurting him where they would succeed, he’d never feared that, but it was by taking away the thing that made his life worth living; his purpose. No matter how vigilant or careful, no matter how brave he was or how hard he fought this too could be taken from him. 

His purpose and his very identity at one time had been completely wrapped up in being an army surgeon. That had all been taken from him in _one piercing moment_ where he came to know the true horror of being _unmade._ It was a fate worse than death to survive to see yourself outlive your purpose. It was a battle he knew he couldn’t possibly win again because it had never been him that won it in the first place. It had been Sherlock. Sherlock had taken his hollowed out husk of body and poured purpose back into it. 

Everything that John Watson was now was bound up in a million little threads of Sherlock, twining around him and binding all the holes like the individual cords in a rope. It was this that made him strong. John felt his heart screaming at the thought of having that burned out of him in one foul swoop. A cold sweat covered his entire body as he recognized the fragility in caring that much about another human being; much less the fearless and reckless Sherlock Holmes.

 _’I’m fine. It’s all fine.’_ John pressed his eyes closed and let his mind chant his well-worn mantra of survival. _’He’s fine,’_ he added forcing himself to feel the body beneath him as alive and, for the moment, safe within his protection. The warmth creeping into his skin chased the cold fear away and his shivers dissipated. 

Sleep did not come easily but when it did it was with images of Sherlock dancing behind his eyelids; _Sherlock leaning forward and smiling... Sherlock laughing against the wall in the entryway hall... Sherlock leaning over him to read his blog… Sherlock holding on to him ‘you’re the only thing that quiets it’... Sherlock reaching up to pull him down on top of him... ‘John’… ‘Stay’..._

It felt like a nightmare. Waking abruptly to the thunk against his back that he discovered was the floor rising up to meet him. For a moment John was sure that his worst nightmare had just been realized and someone had broken into the flat to do some harm to Sherlock. His first thought was that the man was no longer underneath him.

Panic flooded his system and every nerve in his body was ready to fight tooth and nail to get him back and protect him. Instincts took hold and he was on his feet, fists ready, before his eyes even cleared enough to see what might be there to strike out against.

When his gaze found Sherlock and the ex-soldier realized it was him that the disheveled younger man was terrified of it felt as if someone had sliced him across the stomach and pulled his guts out through that gaping hole. 

He’d never seen Sherlock so afraid. All the terrible and demented criminal lowlifes and murders they had faced and the life threatening situations they had endured and any flicker of fear in Sherlock’s eyes had been a mere drop in the bucket to the torrential outpouring of terror currently playing out across his friend’s face and body. 

It was devastating for John. He ached to hold his friend and yet knew he was the cause of the man’s fear. Somehow, without even being awake, he’d managed to destroy everything that was most important to him. He hadn’t seen it coming. There was nothing he could do to make this better. 

John searched for what he might have done to cause such panic in his friend. His mind replayed from the moment he had walked in the door and the realization struck him so hard he took a step back.

He had taken control and all but demanded that Sherlock lay there beneath him. He had practically forced himself on the man, hadn’t he? He’d taken Sherlock’s needed therapeutic calming method and used it against him for _his own_ purposes. He’d been so stupid and selfish and Sherlock had every right to hate him for using his weakness against him in such a cruel way. 

He'd been completely oblivious to the slow slide and how one-sided it was. Sherlock had just needed him to be a _good friend_ and doctor and he’d gotten it all twisted. He went and smashed everything to hell without even trying.That was more than a _bit not good;_ it was bloody pathetic. _Normal people_ probably didn't do that.

John knew that this moment would be forever burned into his mind. The image of Sherlock, usually so cool, placid and self-assured clutching himself protectively in a trembling heap of limbs, a single quaking hand cast up in the space between them as harsh words of rebuke spilled from his flushed and quivering lips. Fuel for new horrific nightmares.

_There it was. One peircing momement. John Watson; unmade._

John retreated upstairs to his room, feeling defeated... undone... at last truly beaten.

> _It is what it is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say better days were ahead?... Well I meant _after_ this chapter.  
> Sorry, love.  
> Hang in there.


	9. 12 Truths of Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirteen days before Christmas Sherlock’s resolve to not tamper with the already volatile situation at last breaks. It has been gnawing at him like a constant itch under his skin. He requires data.

Thirteen days before Christmas Sherlock’s resolve to not tamper with the already volatile situation at last breaks. It has been gnawing at him like a constant itch under his skin. He requires data. 

______________

“How exactly is this going to work then,” John asks skeptically. He settles back into his seat by the fireplace, cupping his hands around his mug of tea and breathing deeply. Steam rises around his face and a contented smile cracks his square jaw. Sherlock looks him over carefully.

“It’s a simple construct, John.” His long legs fold under him as he settles into his own chair facing the doctor. “There is _nothing_ I value more than _data._ Facts, John.” 

The detective flourishes a long, thin hand, then steeples his fingers together over his lap. He scans John with silver-blue eyes. “In place of some appalling or imbecilic gift inflicted upon me in the name of _tradition_ on Christmas day, I propose that you provide me with one previously unknown fact _about you_ for each day leading up to Christmas. Twelve in total, John.”

“That’s a bit… _unusual_ …” The doctor cocks his head to the side as he considers it. His eyes flick to Sherlock and harden a bit. “But I suppose I won’t mind avoiding fighting the crowds and spending all my pay for some trinket I’ll find in with _our rubbish_ one week out,” John fixes Sherlock with a scornful look over his mug. The younger man huffs and turns his eyes to the fireplace. 

The detective considers launching into another diatribe about how the incident with last year’s gift and an acidic compound had been _completely_ accidental and, _coincidentally,_ quite helpful in resolving that double murder case they’d been working on, but thinks better. John seems unmoved by logical arguments on this matter; probably due to some acceptation related to gifts and _sentimentality._

Besides, Sherlock knows that starting a row over that now will hardly increase the likelihood of John being amenable to his proposition.

“This seems a better solution for all parties,” Sherlock says spreading his hands palm up in a small gesture that he hopes will appear sufficiently contrite. It seems to suffice as John lifts his eyebrows and a slight smile hitches his lips up to one side.

“Mmm…12 things about myself that you _don’t_ already know,” John says dropping his gaze to stare into his mug as his thick fingers drum against it thoughtfully.

________________12________

  


Sherlock waits until the door clicks shut before he springs up off the sofa and moves to the window to gaze down at the sandy blond head of his flatmate.

The doctor hesitates a moment, then turns away from the door and crosses the street heading towards the underground. He watches until the compact figure disappears, then he starts the mental countdown clock; minimally five hours and forty three minutes until John returns from his job at the clinic. 

Turning away from the window the detective presses his palms flat together and touches the joined fingertips to his lips, trying to focus. The possibilities of what John might wish to disclose to him are too numerous and his thoughts scatter along a hundred paths branching into a thousand more. His brain sets itself to the task of relentlessly sifting through all the prospects to determine their probability and the potential responses to each. 

He rocks from side to side a moment as his skin crawls and his stomach quakes. He wants to scream with the pent up tangle of it all. He shoves his hands into his hair, gripping the curls tightly and he paces quickly back and forth around the room in random geometric shapes; _trapezium, rhombus, irregular quadrilateral._

He needs to do something; build something, break something. He has to keep his mind busy. His cursed brain which, in all its strength, he had not prepared for such a weakness as John Watson, simply will not be quiet.

He throws on his Belstaff and scarf and sweeps out onto the bustling street. Christmas lights and decorations swath the city in the trappings of the season. Everyone is shuffling about in a frenzy. There is a veneer of excitement and cheer but it is all underpinned with an urgent, frantic dread and need as people scramble to find the _‘perfect gift.’_ It is not unlike the atmosphere in the flat these past few weeks as life fell back into a familiar, yet somehow freneticly enhanced pattern. 

He honestly hadn't expected John to stay after his inexcusable behaviour but, without a word about the incident, life had resumed with the doctor appearing determined to put the whole confusing, and ultimately hurtful, experience of the last few months behind them. 

John’s personality did not alter, but there were small shifts in his behaviour. He began working more than usual at the clinic; frequently picking up extra shifts. He seemed determined to date any female he could lay hands upon, though he rarely made it beyond two dates with any of them (even with Sherlock’s non-interference), and he never sat on the couch with Sherlock anymore. In fact he seemed to avoid the couch altogether. 

At a loss and taking his cue from his friend, Sherlock buried himself in _The Work_ , experiments, trips to the morgue at Bart’s and being a nuisance to Lestrade. 

Copious amounts of takeaway were eaten and tea was consumed and everything was calm and polite. _Hatefully so._

It was a fine dance, an almost perfect masquerade, but then in those moments when they would inevitably slip into their natural, comfortable closeness with a joke or a meaningful look the curtain would be torn back to reveal something more just beneath the surface of the facade. John's deep blue eyes would suddenly darken and an expression like anguish and self-loathing would take over his features. He would quickly move away or look down and a cold and awkward silence would settle between them again. 

Seeing that look in John’s eyes crushed Sherlock. He wanted to do something, say something, but he didn't possess any tools to repair the damage. He was not at all worthy or ready for what John had offered and there was not anything to say to change that, so Sherlock said nothing. 

That gaping chasm in his chest yawned wider. He felt its sucking sensation; the painful inward collapsing. Try as he might to delete everything he ever knew about stars, space and the solar system as a whole, he was taken back to that moment on the couch and that absurd yet powerful certainty that a black hole existed within him, threatening to consume everything. He felt everything closing in.

_Data. Must gather sufficient information. Account for beliefs and desires. Predict behaviour. Understand all of John. Solve the mystery. Fix this._

Sherlock shudders and turns up his coat collar in an effort to shield himself from the unpleasant sensations emanating from the people around him and buzzing in the air. _They are so potent that they sting sometimes._

He heads for a Christmas shop a few streets over deciding on an experiment that will provide him sufficient kinetic release. He will be near useless if he can’t get his transport under control by the time John returns. 

____________________

When John at last walks in the door of the flat, bags in hand and trying to shrug off his coat, he freezes in shock then lets out a slow, steadying breath. There is a sharp shuffle, a sound that Sherlock knows in his sleep; the sound of John physically reining in his initial reaction and disciplining himself into calm patience. 

The need for adaquate distraction had reached epic proportions today. While the resulting experiments had been fairly productive, Sherlock can sense that John is not pleased with the somewhat hazerdous state of dissaray that has overtaken their sitting room. Papers are strewn across every surface next to piles of smashed Christmas ornaments separated by material, color and size of shards, with weapons and blunt objects of various makes laid out beside each pile.

“Been experimenting, have we?” John's voice struggles to hide exasperation beneath good humour; still upholding that deplorable facade of being overly polite to each other. 

Sherlock thinks he would welcome a little of John's (once typical) irritation or a good bout of anger to shatter the complaisant remoteness that hovers between them. Feigning indifference to the the bad behaviours he once so passionately railed against feels like an effort to enforce detachment, as if they are virtual strangers.

Sherlock looks up from his position sitting cross legged on the floor closely examining what remains of a ceramic santa. He lets his eyes flit over the doctor quickly, keeping his deductions surface level; _shoes, coat, hair, hands, scent._

_Busy day. Usual parade of mundane ailments. Took time heading home. Likely delayed by chatting up a new nurse. Young, by the lingering smell of her cheap perfume. Took the tube. Wandered shops a bit considering a Christmas gift for what's-her-name. Didn't buy anything. Stopped at the market to pick up some tea, milk, biscuits and soup._

“Data, John,” Sherlock says straightening himself and settling into the chair in front of the desk, his eyes fastened to the laptop. “It could prove crucial at some future point.” 

Sherlock’s face strains; corners of his eyes pinching and mouth tightening for a moment as he holds back the question he wants to ask.

“Speaking of which,” John awkwardly continues Sherlock’s thought. He rounds the wall and takes the grocery bags into the kitchen. “I believe I was to share a fact _about me_ with you…” 

Sherlock becomes more rigid. He continues to stare at the computer, stealing a glance at John once his back is turned. 

The ex-soldier is tense. His movements are drawn-out and measured. He sets down his bags of groceries on the floor and stands facing the sink a moment. He then scratches at the back of his neck thoughtfully.

“Oh, yes… the _gift_ … on with it then.” Sherlock’s voice embodies the most casual of interest.

John opens the fridge and groans. “Oh god, Sherlock, is this -” He stops, closes his eyes and shakes his head. “No. I don’t want to know.” He slams the door shut and walks to the kitchen entry. He leans forward pointing a finger at Sherlock. His expression is stern. 

“Whatever _that_ is needs to be out of there by Friday,” John states firmly. “We are having guests next week and I am not going to be responsible for giving our friends the bubonic plague.”

Sherlock blinks, feeling oddly heartened by John's outrage However, he is terribly impatient for that information John promised. He has awaited this moment through the eternity of an day but it feels like so much longer - like their entire relationship had been waiting for this.

“Gerbils,” Sherlock states placidly, an air of frustration leaking into his voice.

“What?”

“Gerbils started the bubonic plague, not rats. Those are rats, therefore your reference to the bubonic plague is faulty.” John huffs and throws his hands up, turning his body halfway back towards the fridge.

“How about we keep all things that once were capable of _walking_ out of the _bloody_ fridge… for now… at least until after Christmas. Consider it your _gift to me,_ Sherlock.” 

The detective resists the urge to point out that by John’s criteria no roast or other meat will be permitted in the fridge either, but instead gives a slight nod of concession and waits for John to turn and walk back into the kitchen before calling, “Speaking of _gifts_ there was the matter of yours…”

“Oh, yes,” John smiles. Having put the groceries away he sinks into his chair by the fireplace and reaches for the paper. 

Sherlock watches the doctor. There is a slight curl to his lips; something like a devious smile. He may be enjoying himself; enjoying keeping his companion waiting. However, there is also caution in his eyes and a hesitancy in his movements; he keeps making small unconscious gestures of self-protection as if he is feeling something out; calculating risk. 

More and more frustration is leaking out of Sherlock and he knows his companion can see it. His fingers are fidgeting with a pen and his jaw is clenched as he watches John moving agonizingly slow. 

“Yes... let’s see…” John finally says. “I used to play the clarinet… there you are.” He shakes out the newspaper.

Sherlock feels as if he is going to explode. The day's frustration crashes down on him in full force. His face contorts into something that appears as if he has been driven to madness by confusion. Of all the details he'd contemplated, anticipated or dared to hope that his friend might share, something so superficial and frustratingly useless had never crossed his mind. This was not _at all_ enlightening.

“That’s absurd,” Sherlock explodes. _“That’s_ what you choose to share? Your selection of information for disclosure is as _atrocious_ as your wardrobe. Why would _anyone_ want to know _that_ , John?” His voice has climbed a full octave higher than his usual tone.

John shifts in his seat, glancing down at his gray cabled jumper. It is one of his better jumpers; understated but fitting well in the shoulders and arms. The color brings out the blue in his eyes. 

What Sherlock meant by his comment on the doctor's wardrobe was that it obscures everything that is important, but the way John looks up at the detective, running his eyes over his tailored trousers and fine silk shirt with an expression that has turned harder and more closed off, says he thinks that Sherlock means it in a different way entirely, as an insult. The doctor sighs and frowns slightly as he looks towards the fireplace. The air in the room feels heavier and colder as Sherlock presses his lips together hard and mentally curses his lack of verbal filters.

“I don’t know, Sherlock,” John responds calmly, still gazing at the fire. “Honestly I don’t know why you even proposed this. What sort of _data_ do you want?”

Sherlock casts about a moment, unable to articulate what he needs from John and unwilling to disclose why he is pursuing this. He feels John’s gaze weighing on him and at last snaps, “Not that! An _idiot_ could have figured that out, John. I certainly could have deduced that myself, had I _cared to_.” He was trying to make his voice forceful and insistent, but it came out all wrong. There was an edge of urgent need like a whine.

_Damned treacherous body._

John quirks an eyebrow inquisitively as if he suspects something else is going on. He purses his lips and glances at the mess around the room before his eyes fall on the detective again and he looks him over carefully. What he sees makes his expression shift to something softer, a little less closed off, and he sighs in a familiar resignation. 

“Fine,” His worn patience is clear in the way his words are slow and deliberate. “How about _you_ ask _me_ a question and I’ll just tell you instead.” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, then his whole face suddenly snaps into a radiant smile. “ _Brilliant!_ That’s perfect. _I’ll_ ask _you_ the questions, John.” 

Sherlock’s fingers fly across the keyboard of the laptop as he begins researching, cataloging and ranking questions to form his list of 11. He practically vibrates with excitement.

 _‘Like a really good murder,’_ John mutters to himself as he watches Sherlock warily. He shakes out his paper and clears his throat; the soft sigh and dubious expression on his face making it clear that he suspects he is going to regret this. 

____________11__________

“I have question _eleven._ My question for today, John,” Sherlock says quietly. 

John lifts his eyes from his book. He is sitting across the room on the couch, the first time he has done so in weeks. It is mid-morning and Sherlock has been at the desk in front of his laptop since before dawn. 

The room has been filling with a thickening tension over the last two hours as Sherlock’s glances over his laptop to his friend have steadily increased in frequency and length. John doesn't look up but he clearly feels the eyes watching him, his posture shifting minutely to attentiveness in a way the ex-soldier probably is not even aware he is doing. 

“Alright then,” John says setting down the book. His expression holds relief that the silent staring is about to be over. “Have at it.” John leans forward and locks eyes on Sherlock. 

The detective steeples his fingers together a moment, his eyes narrowing on the doctor. “Describe for me your personality in your formative years.”

“You want to know what I was like when I was a lad?” John’s eyebrows raise. “I’m surprised you haven’t somehow deduced that already,” he says with a spark of humor in his eyes. 

Sherlock grumbles in frustration, “Yes, well Harry is not exactly forthcoming.”

“Might have something to do with the fact that she thinks you’re a rude and arrogant sod,” offers John. 

Sherlock brushes aside his friend's comment with a sweep of his hand. “Personality during childhood is foundational to one’s character later on in life. I require information, John.”

John smiles and sits back on the sofa his ankle on his knee and his arms on the back of the couch spread wide. He gazes off to his right. “Well, I was quiet… Mostly kept to myself… Was what you might call a bookworm… Nothing like you of course, but I read quite a bit… but athletic… Played a bit of rugby…Good at it.”

“Athletic, moderately intelligent and mannered… I suppose you were popular with the girls,” Sherlock drawls.

John grins, managing to look both bashful and proud. He pulls at his ear a bit. “Some took to me well enough…” His face darkens. “But to be honest I wasn't… that _interested_ … I had a lot going on… at home.” John scratches his eyebrow suddenly looking agitated. 

John’s eyes meet his friend's and they are hard; closed off. He gives a small shake of his head back and forth indicating the detective isn’t allowed to broach that subject. 

Sherlock studies the doctor, reading his body language with interest. 

_Spreading his body and limbs out on the couch, indicates trying to make himself look bigger, feeling threatened. Legs in classic four point cross indicates trying to protect self. Flush of cheeks indicates embarrassment, also anger. Set jaw supports anger. Brow furrowed indicates concern and emotional pain. Pinched eyes and slight turn of lips down indicates sadness and frustration._

Sherlock’s eyes slide back to his computer screen and he begins revising his list of questions

________10____________

The cab rocks slowly down the streets of London, working its way back to Baker Street.

The case had sounded interesting initially, but it had taken the consulting detective all of ten minutes looking around the room and at the body to deduce that the sister’s husband had done it. Now the consulting detective and his colleague _(Friend? Flatmate? Partner? live in PA?)_ had little else to do with their day.

“Question ten. The best day you have ever had with me?”

John chuckles and looks out the window thoughtfully. “I’d say the first one had all the right kind of wrong to it… Crime scene… telling Mycroft to sod off… dinner… a good run through the streets and across the rooftops of London chasing after a serial killing cabbie…” 

“Cured your limp,” Sherlock says with a smile.

“Yes, did do _that_ … Shot a bad guy to save my idiot flatmate… tell off Mycroft again… dinner again.” John smiles. Sherlock smiles back. The silence turns oddly tense.

“You do seem to like dinner,” Sherlock observes.

“Mmm… not all of us can live like _you,_ Sherlock… some people find it necessary… or even _pleasurable_ … especially with the right company.”

Sherlock makes a contemplative sound in his throat. John looks at him puzzled, but those silver-blue eyes continue to look straight ahead.

______________9_______________

“Nine. Trapped on a deserted island, what three things would you take?” Sherlock curls into his sitting chair facing John.

“Where do you get these questions, Sherlock?” John looks over his glass of scotch.

“The internet. Websites.” Sherlock waves a hand dismissively, taking a sip from his own tumbler.

“What kind of websites?” John persists with a lazy knowing smile.

“Various sites…” Sherlock growls.

“Dating websites?” John keeps his face blank, but amusement plays like flashes of light in his eyes. 

“Are you going to answer the question, John?” Sherlock snaps.

“Yes, ok…” John chuckles and sits back, stroking his chin. “A big sharp knife.”

“Not your gun?”

“Guns are only good for killing food or defending oneself, and only that for as many bullets as you have.”

“Logical.”

“My med kit.” Sherlock looks inquisitive. “Assuming we can secure food and fresh water, we’re next most likely to die of some untreated injury or an infection. Plus there are things in there that can be used for other purposes like starting fires or treating water.”

Sherlock smiles faintly at the cleverness of his doctor. Then his brow furrows in confusion.

“We? I said alone, John.”

“Right." John nods. "Three things; knife, med kit and... _you._." 

Sherlock freezes, unblinking and unmoving for at least two full minutes. Then he sucks in a sharp breath and blinks rapidly the times.

"So... you are... in fact... saying..."

"Well, of course the third thing would be _you,_ Sherlock…" John's smile is warm and softened by the alcohol, but it manages to capture some of the exasperation at needing to say something obvious that is usually Sherlock's specialty. "I am going to need a genius to figure out a plan if I am ever going to get off that bloody island.” 

Sherlock flushes, stands up quickly and walks to his violin. He plays wild, erratic snaps of quick-paced music.  


_______________8_____________

“Eight. First thing you’d save if the flat caught fire?” 

“You.”

“Me?”

“You… Then the skull… I’ve grown fond of him.”

____________7_________________

“Seven. Biggest fear?”

John pauses for a long time looking at his hands. “Hurting someone I really care about, or not being able to save them.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’d rather not talk about it, Sherlock.” The doctor stands up and walks briskly to his room. 

That night Sherlock hears the ex-soldier having nightmares.

______________6________________

“Six. Most embarrassing moment?”

“This might qualify,” John says looking flushed. 

He’s just taken a bath and come up to his room to change. Having shed his housecoat to put on clothes he suddenly feels, then hears, Sherlock in his doorway. 

He stands there in nothing but his pants as Sherlock peers in the door, presumably waiting for an answer.

The ex-soldier can feel as keenly as a light touch the path of Sherlock’s eyes traveling over his flesh. He snatches up his housecoat and quickly closes the door.  


__________5_______________

“Five. What can I do or say to make you do anything?” 

“When do I ever _not_ do what you ask of me, Sherlock?”

“Plenty of times.”

“Only when you are asking because you’re just being a lazy git… I do everything that’s _important._ ”

Sherlock’s mobile goes off, emitting a sensual moan. Both men jump.

Sherlock silently fishes it out of the pocket of his housecoat and glances down at it, frowning.

John rolls his eyes and mutters something that sounds like _‘forty-nine’_ under his breath.

“So…” Sherlock drawls, shoving the phone back in his pocket.

“I don’t know, Sherlock. You probably just need to ask… Saying please is also a good start… Don’t give me _that face_ … Pleasantries go a long way.”

__________4_______________

“Four. What part of your body would you change if you could?” 

“Mmm… I could do with having some longer legs.”

“You’re legs are… _nice_ … strong.” 

John smiles and tilts his head, looking a mixture of surprised and pleased.

“Yeah, well, if they were a bit longer it wouldn’t be so hard to keep up with you.“ 

There is silence for a moment.

“I expected you would choose…” Sherlock looks at John’s shoulder and tips his head a bit.

“My scar? No… I could do without the pain, but… the scar makes me who I am. I don’t think I’d be who I am… or _where_ I am, without _that._ ”

“I’d agree,” remarks Sherlock smiling to himself.

___________3______________

“Three. First kiss?”

John glances up at the mistletoe Mrs. Hudson has hung above the entry to the sitting room. He is not sure if Sherlock realizes he is standing under it or what that means. The doctor clears his throat and unconsciously wets his lips with a swipe of his tongue. 

“Guests will be here in about an hour. Maybe I should check if we have enough beer.” John doesn’t move though. He continues to stare into those green-blue eyes. They seem surprisingly dark.

“First kiss,” Sherlock repeats. 

“Jane Kilgore. Age 12. Summer. In the woods behind her house.”

“Describe it.” Sherlock takes a small step towards John so the shorter man has to tip his head to look up at him now.

“Messy,” John says with a laugh, looking embarrassed. “Neither of us knew what we were doing so it was just a lot of teeth and mashing noses - trying to figure out the right angles.” They stare at each other in silence a long moment and something in the air shifts; there is weight and electricity. John's hands work at his side, clenching and unclenching, and he realizes he is swaying. He’s only had half a beer so far, so he isn’t sure why he feels so lightheaded. 

The knock on the door makes John jump.

“Jeanette,” he breathes, immediately heading for the door. 

Sherlock lets out an exasperated sigh.

________________2_________________

“Two.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to do this today, what with _her_ -” John swallows the words. He doesn't want to upset his friend by bringing up The Woman's death.

“Two." Sherlock persists. "What is the one part of _my body_ you would change?”

John clears his throat. He looks Sherlock over slowly and his face flushes red. “I - I can’t think of anything I’d change about you,” John admits. He swallows hard. In the silence he feels his friend’s eyes on him.

“Maybe make your feet warmer so you aren’t always trying to shove them under me when I’m on the couch beside you,” John laughs.

“I thought you liked that.” 

John turns a shade redder. He shrugs. “I’ve got nothing.” He goes back to reading his paper.

____________1______________

Sherlock stops and puts down his violin. “One. What do you want most in the world, John?” 

John looks out the window at the falling snow. “I suppose I should say world peace or something like that.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock grumbles.

“Yeah, you’re right… we’d be out of a job _then_ ,” John says dryly and quirks an eyebrow at Sherlock.

The detective's face brightens in a genuine smile and they both share a small laugh. It feels _good_. Natural. Like the _real them._

Sherlock lifts his eyebrows at his companion, silently demanding an answer. John just stares back at him, his lips drawing into a crooked smirk. He puts his arms out a little from his waist and tips up his chin; inviting the detective to deduce him. 

Sherlock realizes he had been avoiding deducing his flatmate too deeply since the night that he shoved the doctor off himself and verbally demolished him. He couldn’t bare seeing all that pain and disappointment on top of his own self-loathing. There could be no excuse for how he'd acted. He’d been overwhelmed by the raw emotion of the moment and had lashed out in a terribly hurtful way. However, the last eleven days had changed everything again. It was difficult to pin on to anything substantanative, but he felt _forgiven_. John seemed to enjoy his daily efforts to understand him. His responses were so open and earnest and Sherlock discovered that the more he knew about his companion the bolder his impulses grew and the safer it felt to indulge them. 

The detective tilts his head, his eyes flick around as he begins to analyze his companion. 

_Brow relaxed... Hasn’t spoken to Harry today. New cologne… gift from Mrs. Hudson. Shaved this morning. Carefully. Used straight razor... thinks it gives closer shave so hoping to be intimately close to someone... Potentially feeling sentimental - shaving in this fashion reminds him of his grandfather. Drinking hard liquor supports this - his method for coping with uncomfortable emotionality… Eyes slightly glassy. Face relaxed but attentive.... Not drunk yet, but feeling buzzed...Bit of product in hair. Date shirt. Date jeans - but no date… Jeanette dumped him two days ago after the party… hasn't left flat or seen anyone all day and bare feet indicates not planning to… Certain type of tension... Hasn't been with anyone in over a month… hasn't provided self-relief in at least three days..._

He stops on John’s eyes. 

_Pupils dilated indicating intense attraction._

Sherlock’s eyes dart to John's pulse point in his neck _[elevated heart rate]_ then his groin _[aroused]_ and he swallows roughly. 

John sees the recognition finally reaching his friends eyes. He puts his palms out in a placating gesture, and gives a small, warm smile of reassurance as he shakes his head back and forth.

“It is what it is, yeah,” he says softly. And he actually means it; not with regret or sadness but with complete surrender and a suprising amount of relief. 

He has accepted it. John is John, Sherlock is Sherlock and what he feels and his friend does _not_ need not change what they are together; which is _bloody fantastic._ Chasing bad guys and laughter at crime scenes, tea and yelling at crap telly, takeaway and violin, mind blowing deductions and astounding lack of common sense... a thousand amazing things that an ordinary life can't possibly compare to. He knows that Sherlock does not feel the same and probably never could but all the detective's questions these past eleven days have made things very clear for John. He's been trying so hard to box up and categorize what they are into something easily understood but now he has come to see that all that is too small for what they really have.

Accepting it feels so much better than all the effort he has been putting into trying to resist or change it into something it isn't. It is ridiculous really even his girlfriend's had started to look like Sherlock; Jeanette, tall and dark-haired where his usual type was always short and blond. They have always only ever been poor substitutes for the real thing - for what he really wants. John is done with that. He will just accept what he has and recognize that it _is_ fine. _Flatmate. Colleague. Friend. Mate. Live in PA. Doctor. Sidekick. Handler. Bodyguard._ It is all fine. 

It is enough. _More than_ enough.

John shrugs and turns his eyes back to the softly falling snow. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” he says looking out the window. 

_He can feel Sherlock’s eyes watching him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > Look **_#MollyMaloneandAbigailVanBuren_** \- for you I made these boys communicate!
>> 
>> Well, at least a start. :)
> 
> I kind of stole from myself with this one. Recycling really. I wrote a version of this chapter as a short fluff one-off piece and adapted it for this story because it was perfect for getting these men to where they need to go.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks so much for your Kudos but especially your Comments! So appreciate you sharing your thoughts! It gives me a boost and keeps me going really! >


	10. Flesh Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case, a wound and Sherlock accepting that John is one thing he can't live without.

The crack of the gunshot echoes in the abandoned warehouse. John is already diving forward, twisting to drag Sherlock with him to the hard cement ground. 

The ex-soldier feels the sting immediately, but he rolls over on top of Sherlock, covering him as he pulls up his British Army L9A1. In the space of a heartbeat he’s shot the gunman square between the eyes. The murdering bastard crumples into a pile on the floor. John holds him in his sights a few seconds longer before he lets out a long breath and collapses around Sherlock. 

The detective squirms out from under the ex-soldier and scrambles over to the motionless criminal. He hunches down over the body, inhaling deeply through his nose and then visually inspecting the right hand of the felled man. 

“It's him, John! He couldn't resist trying to get the machine while Garridebs was out.” He rises up to his full height and kicks the gun away from where it dropped close to the murder’s right hand, though there is no danger of it being reclaimed now. 

He has a small smile of satisfaction playing across his lips as he starts pacing; the tips of his steepled hands resting against his mouth. “Excellent. Yes... This. Was. Brilliant,” he says with an excited flourish. 

He snatches his phone from his coat pocket and hastily types a text message to Lestrade. He hits send and slips his phone back into his pocket with a note of finality. 

He at last turns and looks at John who he finds still sprawled on the gray cement slab floor. The ex-soldier is on his back; his eyes pressed closed and his face fixed in a pained grimace. Sherlock is confused for a brief second before his gaze falls on the red stain blooming on his companion's chest. 

“John. John? No… no, no, no... you're shot, John… no, John.” Sherlock frantically leaps at the doctor, skidding to his knees at his side, fingers moving lightning fast as they sweep around the bloody rip in his shirt over his right pectoral muscle. John opens his eyes and looks down at the top of the curly head bent over his chest. 

“Yeah,” he groans. “I’m - It's just-” 

Sherlock hooks his fingers in the center flap of John's button down shirt and rips it apart so violently that buttons go flying like shrapnel.

“Oi! Sherlock!” John gasps and tries to sit up.

“My… Christ, just-” Sherlock roughly pushes John back flat against the floor, knocking the wind out of the wounded man. He is moving at a fervent pace. In a flurry of motion he throws the doctor's shirt to either side revealing an approximately twelve centimeter long gash with blood seeping down the ridges of John's muscled abdomen. 

The detective's cool fingers go to work probing the angry flesh around the wound to try to determine the severity beneath all that blood. John draws in a deep, hissing breath between his clenched teeth as pain shoots through him and his vision swims. 

“Sherlock, just-” He reaches for the detective's wrists but the man's hands quickly move to caging the doctor's face with the sprawl of his long fingers on both sides of his jaw.

“Grazed you. Flesh wound. Just a flesh wound, John.” Sherlock says haltingly; his jaw snapping on the words as if it takes extreme effort to push them out. His pupils are wide and his silver blue eyes are burning intensely with something wild, just barely contained within them.

“Yeah, I know-” John grabs Sherlock's hands to peel them off his face. He can't resist the natural inclination of his eyes to slide closed when held within the detective’s grasp; those sharp eyes and his other-worldly face so close. He can't face it now. He's a grown man; a battle hardened ex-army doctor. That intensely focused look the detective is giving him, like he wants to crawl inside him through his eyes, shouldn't make him feel weak all over… _but it does._

_Ridiculous, Watson. Keep it in check._

“Sherlock, just-” But before he has a chance to finish his sentence or force his eyes open Sherlock is upon him with such speed and momentum that John's head snaps back the little distance he’d managed to lift off the ground with a blunt thud against the hard cement. He is forced to swallow his own muffled cry of alarm as Sherlock’s plush lips seal over his thinner ones in the exact same manner he had used to provide supplemental air to the detective on the couch during his panic attack. Then Sherlock is pushing air into his perfectly capable lungs. 

The doctor grabs his friend by both shoulders and thrusts him back; holding him at arm's length. 

“Don't actually need CPR just now, Sherlock,” John coughs out, laughing. He keeps his hands firmly gripping the thinner man's shoulders so, if nothing else, he can prevent him from doing something else erratic. 

Sherlock’s eyes drop to the bloody gash again. He looks pained as he moves his fingers to skirt the deeply splayed flesh that is spilling a steady stream of John's blood. His lips form a tight line that his companion has come to recognize as embarrassment.

“Yes, well… can’t be _too_ careful,” he is obviously trying for his usual sardonic humor but fails miserably with a tone that has a fragile and wounded undertone and a smile that is restrained and slightly sad. 

It suddenly clicks for the doctor that the imitation of his mouth-to-mouth resuscitation may be the only thing the younger man knows how to do. Perhaps his intention was a kiss or just some sort of physical gesture of comfort, but in the heat of the moment, all shamming aside, he could only mirror what John had done for him in his moment of need.

Affection surges so strong that John's chest feels tight, as if his ribcage is suddenly too small to contain his rapidly beating heart. He lets his hands drop away from Sherlock’s shoulders as an open invitation.

_He’d bloody well faint before he'd try to stop Sherlock again._

“Yeah... Of course... big on safety, we are,” John says with a hint of sarcasm as he gives his frazzled companion a crooked grin and lifts his eyebrows in that teasing expression that usually makes Sherlock laugh or at least smile. 

Sherlock just lets his eyes slip down to the gaping wound again and his expression darkens. John watches intently as that whole lean body starts to tremble.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice falters and the name almost sounds like a plea. “You could have-” There's a desperation in him that John has never seen before; a sort of manic need. His hands are clutched on either side of the doctor's open shirt, worrying the fabric as he just stares at all that blood. 

John remembers Sherlock clutching him by the coat in the alley months ago. This behavior had been the first symptom of an imminent panic attack. He'd managed to lead his friend back from the cliff edge with teasing and humor then. Though his chest is beginning to move from the initial dull, numbed buzz of pain to screaming in pain, he tries to relax his face and put on a chiding smile for Sherlock’s sake. 

“And foil your _plan_? I wouldn't dare,” he jokes in an intimate tone.

“No... No plan _this time,_ John.” Sherlock swallows roughly, adam's apple bobbing in his throat. “This- _This_ was... _never_... my plan.” Sherlock says slowly, forcefully, as if he's trying to will his friend to understand that there is more meaning behind those simple words. All Sherlock's disparaging remarks about the fallacy of emotion and sentiment come back to the doctor. He sees the silent struggle in his companion as he allows his own despised emotions to surface. 

_Sherlock hadn't planned to ever feel again. He hadn't wanted to care so deeply for anyone. He, like John, realizes how dangerous and devastating that can be._

“Oh,” John breathes in surprise. He holds himself still as he looks up into Sherlock’s eyes. The detective is completely wrecked; his eyes wide and glassy, his lips trembling slightly, his face, an even more ghostly parlor than usual, is so open and genuine. He is completely unguarded and that raw vulnerability is breathtaking. It lodges in the center of John's chest, just below his sternum and stays there, searing hot and painfully heavy.

The revelation is so sudden and forceful that the doctor's head falls back to smack against the cement again. _How could he not see this?_ Sherlock ‘doesn't feel things like other people’ but it is not because he feels _nothing_ or even any _less than_ everyone else. In keeping with his utterly incomprehensible and astounding character, Sherlock feels _more_. He feels with a powerful intensity so raw and unfiltered that it is overwhelming when he unleashes it, so he keeps it locked under tight control; hidden. 

The look now on that pale face is hauntingly familiar to John; the utter devastation of _[nearly]_ losing something that you are certain you can't possibly live without. 

_Well, that’s new._

John places his hands over top of Sherlock’s that are clutching the remains of his shirt. He feels the tremble and every muscle of his companion is clenched. 

“It's ok, Sherlock,” John soothes. “Just breathe. It’s fine. _We're_ fine.” 

“I don't know how to do this.... what to do.” The detective's words come out dry and as if they were stuck in his throat. He stares at the wound with intense focus, but John gets the sense that they are talking about something other than treating his injury. 

Sherlock’s eyes flick back up to his and their green-blue depths are child-like in how innocence and lost they have become.“This is _your area,_ ” he says quietly.

“Alright,” John says slowly. He feels a tingling sensation creeping over his scalp and down his chest. He holds Sherlock’s gaze with calm confidence; steadying him. “You'll do fine. I'll get you through it nice and slow.” 

Emotions flicker across Sherlock’s face so quickly and in such minute variations of twinges of muscles that John has trouble tracking them all, but then his features settle on something new; a sort of determined surrender or resolve to submit. The detective, so accustomed to knowing everything and answering to no one, has a trusting expression that says he is not in control and he is _OK with that._

They stare at each other a long moment as something heady passes between them. John feels a shift in the air, like the world is letting out a held breath. Then Sherlock gives a small nod and he releases the shirt as he turns his gaze back to the wound. “Tell me,” he demands softly.

“Alright,” John pushes up on his elbows and looks down at himself. Using a corner of his shirt he swipes away some of the blood that has run down his abdomen. “Just need to try to stop the bleeding.... Apply pressure, cover it until we can get it properly cared for,” the doctor says. 

Sherlock nods and looks down at himself. He quickly unbuttons his coat and pulls out his fine silk shirt from his trousers, then abruptly rips a long strip off the bottom.

“God, Sherlock,” John gasps horrified at the destruction of what is obviously a very expensive garment. “What…?”

“Clean dressing for the wound,” Sherlock says flatly as he folds the cloth into a rectangle of the appropriate size to cover the gash.

“Yeah, but...My shirt is already ruined and… That was a _very nice_ shirt.”

Sherlock’s eyes meet John’s, and there is an intensity and heat in them. “Just a shirt, John,” he says slowly. _‘Not as important as you,’_ his eyes say. 

John feels a surge of something warm and it makes his thoughts feel fuzzy on the edges. Somehow that simple gesture and the accompanying look make him feel… _cared for_ … valued and precious; a completely new sensation. 

_John Watson, soldier and doctor, takes care of people. That's what he does. No one ever really takes care of him._

“Yeah… alright,” he says in dazed awe. He lays back as Sherlock rips off another strip and proceeds to tie it around him to hold the makeshift bandage in place. He tries to focus on the sensation of Sherlock’s delicate fingers working nimbly over his chest. 

By the time the bandage is secured, the adrenaline is retreating, leaving the wounded ex-soldier cold and trembling; aware of the excruciating burning sensation of his wound and the terrifyingly familiar feeling of his own hot blood pouring down his chest and cooling on his abdomen. The realization of just how bad this all could have been is a cold chill in him. His body is making violent little sporadic shudders.

“Always trying to rip my clothes off in dark buildings,” John muses with a chuckle as Sherlock finishes his work. He starts laughing and he can't stop. The absurdity of the whole situation feels overwhelming. Vaguely he knows he is having an acute stress reaction, the psychological shock combined with the drop from the adrenaline surge and circulatory elevation, but he can't make himself quit laughing. His whole body is shaking with it, interrupted only by the almost painful shudders. 

Sherlock just studies him with his brow furrowed and a deep frown; his trembling hands still lightly ghosting across the bandage over John’s fresh wound; the white fabric already stained deep red. 

“I - It appears you're going into shock, John,” Sherlock says flatly but his eyes hold a little panick.

“Yeah…” John looks up at him, finally able to stop giggling when he sees the look of concern on his friend's face. He groans slightly as his muscles contract in another painful shudder. 

“Well, then... get over here and _blanket me_ you beautiful idiot,” John retorts with a grin. His body shivers even as he clenches his jaw, trying to steel himself against the burning, throbbing pain. He holds out both his arms to his friend. 

Sherlock looks hesitant for only a moment before carefully climbing on top of John and lowering his body. 

It isn't exactly comfortable against the cold, hard floor but John feels that familiar, calming effect of the world narrowing down to him and Sherlock and being able to hold onto the most important thing in his world. He slips his arms around inside Sherlock's coat to firmly wrap his arms around Sherlock's lower chest. The heat is _wonderful._ He feels the intermittent shudders course through that thinner frame as well.

“Lestrade on his way?” John asks between clenched teeth; he is dragging in deep breaths to try to calm his body. 

Those raven-colored curls dance across John's bare shoulder as Sherlock nods his head up and down. The wounded doctor feels the urge to laugh again; the thrilling tickling sensation so at war with the intense agony of his torn flesh. 

“People are definitely going to talk,” Sherlock whispers in a voice that has gone deeper but still quivers slightly. He takes a shaky breath and shifts downward to press his ear over John's heart.

“They'd be idiots not to,” John huffs in amusement. Sherlock hums in agreement, listening intently to the slowing beats of John's heart. The soft rhythmic _thud, thu-thud_ that confirms that his John is indeed alive.

“It's not there,” John says absently. Sherlock lifts his head to give him a quizzical look. John has lifted his upper body to stare down at the man wrapped around him, his smile looks lazy and drunk. 

“Looking for my heart, yeah? it's not there anymore.” Sherlock narrows his eyes on his friend.

“You're not making much sense, John.” John snorts and falls back, recalling when he said something very similar to a drugged Sherlock… and wasn't _that_ when everything took a surprising turn.

“I almost got shot,” John says by way of excuse.

“Technically, you did get shot. A flesh wound, but a gunshot wound nevertheless.” Sherlock’s tone is imperious but he shifts a little to hold the doctor tighter. 

John feels the darkness creeping over his vision; the coldness slowly taking him over. He is frozen to the ground and can't move or breathe well. The need to drift off to sleep feels irresistible.

“Sherlock,” he says slowly and his companion, immediately knowing the wrongness of that tone, lifts his head to study John’s face. 

“Going now,” he manages to say. He feels more than he hears the gasp; the thin body against his own jerking and tensing. His vision has already faded to black.

_Christ. Want to see him one last time._

“You - You can’t - John…”

“It's ok… stay calm…” His voice is mercifully empty of the emotions tumbling around inside him; fear, sadness, regret and longing. The darkness is ebbing towards him now, surging and retreating in little waves like the tide coming in. 

_Damned flawed and defective body... Sherlock is the only one that has ever taken care of him... Surrender it to Sherlock… it's his now._

“Just... don't stop... holding… talking… yeah?” John feels the warm liquid cutting a path from the corner of his eye down his cheek. “I’ll try-” _to come back to you._ The darkness suddenly surges and John is dropping, tumbling, weightless and timeless. 

______________  
_Lights. Too much light... Voices. Gruff and loud... Yelling? Angry?... Familiar?_

_Lestrade… Now, Sherlock… Arguing... Pressure and pulling... Weightlessness... then leaden… familiar scent - Sherlock still close… Pain. Pain. PAIN… cold... Sherlock?_

“Calm down, Sherlock.” Silence. His scent again.

“John?” His voice is trembling. He's scared. _Can’t have that._

John forces his eyes open. He can only take in a blurred vision of Sherlock leaning close; dark hair falling over pale forehead, eyes red rimmed and manic. John reaches up and touches his cheek, assuring himself he is solid and real. The cheek is warm and wet with tears. He lets his eyes slide closed again, holding on to that warmth.

“Let them do their work, Sherlock,” he says as sternly as he can manage. He feels very weak and his thoughts are thin and unclear. Sherlock's cold and trembling hand closes over his; holding it tighter to his cheek.

“They’re idiots,” Sherlock whispers closer; his voice urgent and angry.

“Everyone's an idiot compared to you, love. Trust them anyways, yeah.”

_Shit... Slipped... Shouldn't have... called him... _that_ ….. out now… cold..… maybe….. blood... loss..._

John’s hand goes limp in Sherlock’s as he surrenders to the darkness once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close now... _idiots falling in love_ takes time. Thanks for hanging in there!  
> 웃❤유 
> 
>  
> 
> **Comments make my day! Love to hear from you and converse!**


	11. Meltdowns and Biohazards

It was terrifying. Yet, surviving it was not half as difficult as knowing what to do _after._

It was _not_ by virtue of Sherlock’s own special strength of character or some admirable force of will that he had somehow managed to endure being torn open. Existing past that moment when everything, including all his carefully laid defenses, were shattered around him could be no more considered an accomplishment than staying alive for 32 years could be defined as somehow making him victorious over death. There was no doubt who would win in the end, who had _already won,_ and had just yet to lay claim to victory. 

He could only temporarily stave off the inevitable.

Standing there outside the doors of the hall leading to surgery, still squeaking miserably on their settling hinges from the flurry of activity that just assaulted them, Sherlock feels it all catching up to him. His mind replays on a stuttering loop the last image of John on the stretcher; eyes closed, his usually sand brown skin so colorless, oxygen mask swallowing his face and obscuring his features, chest bare and already robbed of Sherlock’s makeshift bandage. 

_John. John. John. John._

His mind keeps repeating the word like a stuck recording; a chant or as close to a prayer as he has ever gotten. His whole body is shaking. His legs feel powerless to withstand the weight of reality overtaking him. He distantly can hear someone, perhaps the orderly that had restrained him from following John’s gurney, say something to him and a too harsh grip guides him to a scratchy chair in a visually offensive puce green where he collapses in on himself, head in hands as he tries to block out the extraneous input. 

All the little things are coalescing. John is his anchor, his calm in the center of the storm, and the knowledge that that has erred is making his world crumble as if the walls he'd so painstakingly built were only ever made of sand. Everything that has happened to him over the past few hours compressed down into a single instant and explodes across his senses with devastating force. It’s too much data all at once, uncontained and thrashing around; pummeling him relentlessly from the inside. 

He is trying to hold on but he can feel the overwhelming darkness surging forward to engulf his very being and a low rumbling sound is growing in his chest as he is overwhelmed with the increasing pressure of it all. His heart rate is escalating and there’s a buzzing sound in his ears building towards an unbearable level. Fissures are forming and spidering outward. He is splitting open. Then it is upon him, a *meltdown, the likes of which he hasn't experienced in years. 

His brain explodes into a cacophony of noise and sensation. Irrepressible anger surges out and possesses his body fully. 

The insufferable chair is the first victim. Flung across the room with ease, it crashes against the wall and noise and motion erupt in a frenzy around the room, further overwhelming his frayed senses.There is no logic to his actions, he is in psychological free-fall and there is only the conviction that his body must rid itself of this build up before it rips him to pieces. 

It is all a blur as his body rages; smashing, ripping and throwing everything it encounters even as the senselessness of it all is inwardly devastating him. He is blindly and desperately trying to obtain some relief but all the feedback from the world enclosing him just adds to his torment. He is on his knees, wailing and hitting and tearing at himself and anything that dares to come into close enough proximity.

Hands are on him and they are like electric shocks, harsh and painful, shooting through him. He thrashes violently to escape. More hands join them. Then the press of unfamiliar bodies with new scents and textures assaults him and soon he is on his stomach on the cold linoleum floor that smells of bleach and shoe rubber, arms and legs held down with an agonizing weight as he struggles to breathe. 

There is nothing left for him to do to meet the insistent demand of his body but to smash his head against the ground. He manages to do so twice before that is stopped too and then an inhuman wailing sound is coming from him at the agony of the unfulfilled compulsion. He is going to be stuck in this chaos forever. His body and mind are screeching. It is killing him. 

The voice comes from above and in front of Sherlock. “Christ, get off him! He's having some sort of… _episode_. Get off him…Now! I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade and I'm _ordering_ you two to let him go... and clear the room.” 

The weight on his limbs retracts and Sherlock immediately recoils into himself, sitting up and curling into a ball, knees pulled to his chest and rocking back and forth. One hand clenches in his hair, the other coils around his legs to hold himself tightly, occasionally smacking a palm against his legs or his skull as he tries to jar things back into place and come down as the storm inside him blows itself out.

He is shivery, and there’s an immense feeling of fatigue as he at last lifts his eyes to numbly survey the destruction. He is surprised to meet the gaze of Lestrade sitting directly in front of him on a chair, forearms on his spread knees, fingers woven together as he leans forward. His brown eyes are surprisingly soft and compassionate. Waves of embarrassment and regret crash over Sherlock along with anger and disappointment.

“For God's sake don't look at me like _that_ , “ Sherlock snaps irritably. His voice feels hoarse. “I haven't changed, _you have_. It's all in your head.” Lestrade looks him over thoughtfully. 

“Should have seen it... Got a cousin with Autism. Guess I never put it together because you control it so well…” the Inspector glances around at the ransacked room with a grimace. “ _Most_ the time, anyhow,” he concludes. Sherlock scoffs, running a shaking hand through his tousled hair.

“High functioning Asperger's," Sherlock snaps in the same tone he usually corrects people that call him a _psychopath_ with the term _'high-functioning sociopath.'_ “ Do your research," Sherlock sighs, looking away. "I _don't_ control it, _obviously._..” His voice is hollowed out, but edged with bitterness as he assess the room. “I generally manage some of the more apparent symptoms through a combination of self-discipline and replacing them with more... _acceptable_ behavior, but I am not... capable of… disguising them _all._ ” Lestrade nods slowly.

“Why didn’t you say something? I mean… people would understand you better... Wouldn't be so harsh.” Sherlock's laugh is acrid. He glares up at him from over his knees.

“Yes? Is it best to confirm for everyone that I am indeed the _‘defective detective’_ as Anderson so aptly put it?... They'd still say, or at least _think,_ all the same things but would feel some sort of _moral obligation_ to treat me politely to my face. I do not desire the _pity_ of the likes of Donovan or Anderson,” Sherlock spits in an angry and wounded tone. “I would rather a clear enemy than a false friend.”

“Fair enough,” Lestrade says with a sigh, his eyes shifting to something more like respect and understanding. He places his palms flat on his knees as if preparing to get up. He stops and considers Sherlock. 

“John knows?” Sherlock stares at his own knees, his system flooding with a sense of calm and peace as the memory surfaces of laying on the couch with John blanketing him.

“Yes,” he says in something like wonder. He had, albeit unintentionally, shared his deepest pain and darkest secret with John and John had not turned away. He had responded with kindness and empathy. Somehow, in the face of such honest compassion, the shame and fear could not survive.

“I suppose that's all that matters,” Lestrade says rising to his feet. Sherlock nods, stunned by how the truth of that statement resonates through him and leaves him feeling strangely settled in his skin.

Lestrade stands in front of him now, his hand extended down. Sherlock looks at it and follows it up to the man's face as his stiff and exhausted body slowly uncoils. 

“The name’s _Greg_ … Nice to _finally_ meet you Sherlock,” he says with a genuine smile. Sherlock tips his head to the side and studies him a long moment. 

“Greg,” he says tonelessly and takes the hand, allowing himself to be hoisted to his feet.

___________________________

“You know, Googling medical terms from my chart still doesn't _actually_ make you more qualified to determine treatment than the doctors,” John says quietly, smirking as Sherlock’s startled eyes rise to meet his. “Genius or not, _the living_ is hardly your specialty, Sherlock,” he chides warmly.

He has been watching Sherlock silently for the last ten minutes. Upon prying open his heavy eyelids he found his friend in the small, dimly lit room with drab furnishings standing at the foot of his hospital bed. He studied the pale face; turned down, his tense, glaring features lit by the soft glow of his phone’s screen, dark curls falling erratically over his forehead as his thumb swiped nimbly over the surface. His other hand clasped a medical chart held open to the middle. He glanced between the two with the corners of his mouth pulled down in frustration and the little bump of extreme focus in the center of his brow. John just watched him through half-lidded eyes feeling the warmth of affection creep through his chest. 

“John,” Sherlock breathes, his head snapping up at the sound of his voice. His hand tightens on his phone as he freezes a half second. Then he is a flurry of motion as he quickly shoves the chart back in its holder with a thunk, slips his phone in his trouser pocket and makes an aborted move towards him. He abruptly halts, slightly open mouth snapping shut as he instead curls hands around the footboard of the bed.

John squishes his eyes closed and rubs at his temples where there is a low throb. The rhythmic beeping of medical monitors grates on his nerves and the sharp scent of antiseptic and bleach makes his stomach clench. His brain feels slightly fuzzy, like it's wrapped in cotton.

“Besides, those internet websites grossly simplify the diagnosis of symptoms,” he says opening his eyes and beginning to evaluate himself for injury by running his hands over his arms and down his body; a habit he picked up in Afghanistan. “They'll probably convince you I have cancer or some rare flesh eating necrotitis.”

His gaze follows the IV tube running into his left arm up to the IV pole and he studies the bags of fluid hanging there. He makes a contemplative sound in the back of his throat. 

“Saline for rehydration, platelets for blood loss and a bit of morphine for the pain.” He must have lost quite a bit of blood. He tries to look down at his own chest but the angle is awkward, so he simply runs his hand over the bandage, cringing at the sting of pain. He can tell it has been stitched by the way the flesh pulls tight when he tries to move. 

“And looks like they've got me all stitched up already… seems like they are doing a fine job of caring for me, Sherlock.” 

John lifts up the blankets to assess the rest of his body for injury. He finds that he is completely naked and he quickly lowers it back down. He'd expected the need to go shirtless with the location of the wound but not to be stripped of everything. 

His eyes slide back to Sherlock and he is startled at what he sees. Three days of sleep deprivation for a case followed by a night in the hospital have most definitely taken their toll. Those big, blue-gray eyes are liquid as if barely restraining tears and he is leaning forward and holding on to the edge of the bed with a fierce grip. His eyes are intensely focused and his jaw is clenched. 

John notices a small bandage on his forehead just below his hairline and that his shirt is still the one from the warehouse. It is torn all along the bottom, from when he made the bandage, giving him the disheveled appearance of some washed out stockbroker reduced to begging. The dark burgundy stain over the left side of his chest is a mirror to John’s own wound, a stinging reminder of those desperate and yet somehow glorious moments when they had clung to each other in the cold and dark. In that moment he could almost have believe Sherlock loved him back.

The way he is staring at John now is as if the ex-soldier has just been resurrected from the grave. His expression is so raw, John freezes and lets out a long breath. He clears his throat and tucks his chin.

“Alright?” He asks gently. Sherlock blinks, turning away and visibly pulling himself back under control; his spine stiffening and his face smoothing.

“Trained monkeys could do better, John. I said as much.” His voice is gravely and John wonders if it's not from screaming at nurses and doctors. He paces swiftly to the window and brushes aside the curtain with the back of two fingers so a small sliver of muted light creeps in. He gazes out a moment. 

“I think your clothes were taken due to a significant amount of _blood-_ ” Sherlock’s voice rasps on that word, but he quickly recovers. “saturating them. Something to do with _biohazards_... a gross overreaction by my estimation.”

John chuckles softly, “Yes, well we know from the state of our kitchen that you may not be the best judge on the whole _biohazard precautions_ front,” he smiles fondly at Sherlock’s back, but his friend doesn't turn to share in the joke. John gathers that he is not in the mood for playful teasing and lets the silence stretch. He leans back into the pillow feeling heavy and tired. His chest has a low buzz of pain radiating from it and the throb in his head only relents a little when he closes his eyes. He lets his eyes slide closed. 

“You are to be discharged in four hours,” Sherlock states flatly.

John opens his eyes halfway. “That's… _unusual._ They'd typically want to keep a gunshot wound with significant blood loss at least overnight for observation.” Sherlock clears his throat and looks away. 

“Discharged... or... _evicted?_ ,” John inquires and he can't help the grin that spreads across his face as Sherlock tips his head back to look at the ceiling. “What did you do?” John drawls.

“It is sufficient to say that the affair the doctor _was_ having with the orderly has hit a bit of a _rough spot_ and, given that he is currently married and maintaining the pretense of being heterosexual, pointing out such affair in the presence of the doctor's team and in a voice that may be overheard was not... _appreciated._ ”

“Sherlock,” John groans putting his face in his hands. "Bit not good."

“I would not have been forced to highlight the matter had the doctor not been 45 minutes late for his follow-up with you due to their exploits.”

“Right. Of course,” John sighs. There is silence a moment while John closes his eyes again and tries to relax, drifting towards sleep once again.

“And I may have implied that the nurses lack the skill to be entrusted with the adequate care of gerbils,” Sherlock mumbles. 

“Well, good thing... I hear they have the bubonic plague,” John says with a smirk. Sherlock blinks then smiles back, relaxing a little with the comfortable warmth of companionship John offers.

“It's fine, Sherlock.” He gives him a nod. He heaves a heavy sigh and winces at the pain that the movement shoots through his chest. He touches his covered wound lightly, then looks up at Sherlock who is staring back at him with concern 

“Rather be home anyways,” he says closing his eyes and settling back again. “Just going to rest a bit before we get evicted.... Try not to make trouble,” he mumbles his voice growing thick with the pull of sleep.

“Of course, John,” Sherlock sighs. “Don't worry about a thing... I'll take care of this.”

“Mmmm,” John hums and his lips curl up in a faint smile as his head begins to sag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. Not intentionally, but edit and agonize as I did over this I just couldn't end it without this little bitty chapter too. So one last chapter after this, yeah?
> 
> *I use the term _meltdown_ in the sense of an episode of complete loss of behavioral control in a person with Autism due to sensory, informational or emotional overload. More information is available here: <https://www.ambitiousaboutautism.org.uk>


	12. Zero and an Accepted Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is finally ready to make his move.
>
>> You're imperfect, and you're wired for struggle, but you are worthy of love and belonging.  
> [-Brene Brown](https://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability?language=en)  
> 

“I could probably do this myself,” John calls loudly, the edge of frustration clear in his voice as he lifts his head and gazes out the open bathroom door to the hall where Sherlock’s rustling movements have ceased. He is seated on the edge of the tub, stripped to the waist and impatiently flexing his bare feet against the fuzzy bath mat. “I _am_ a doctor, you know.” He waits; holding himself still as he listens for a response. 

In the hallway Sherlock freezes in mid-stride. He throws a hand against the wall to steady himself and smooths his other hand down his bare chest and abdomen. The part of him that seems bound to John won't stop its relentless flailing within him. The sensation of things shifting underneath his skin and writhing around in the hollows of his interior is no less disconcerting for its familiarity due to John’s uncanny ability to evoke it. There is a buzz running through his frame, a fission of anticipation bubbling in his chest. The closest thing he can associate it with is the intoxicating high when he realizes that a formidable game of pursuit is revealing itself. He knows all his faculties will be tested but he is eager for the challenge. 

_John. Strong, brave, kind, fearless, John. Need to take care of him._

“Don't be ridiculous, John, you can't even see it properly, “ Sherlock retorts with audible irritation as he moves into the kitchen. An exasperated sigh echos against the tile of the bathroom walls as John lets his head bow again; chin resting on his chest. 

As Sherlock gathers the last of the medical supplies onto a tray he feels his nerves twitching. He needs to get his transport under control if he is going to manage this delicate dance. He closes his eyes and focuses, imagining that his hand is shorter with stronger, thicker fingers calloused in that distinctive pattern that speaks of the unique combination of healer and protector. He allows his hand to skim down his chest, across the hollow valley of his navel and over his jutting peaks of his hips imagining a different touch; soldier firm and doctor gentle. The skin sparks and tingles at the new input. His brain quiets. The churning sensation slows and stills. He reaches for a memory to focus on, closing his eyes.

>   
>  _Access: John Wounded_  
>  Play.  
>  John’s dark blue eyes, warm and reverential in the cold warehouse. Strong arms open, reaching out, welcoming.  
>  ”Come here and blanket me you _beautiful_ idiot”  
>  Warmth and pressure as bodies collide. Melting.  
>  The smell of earth and mint and John mixing with the dust and rust and old grease of the disused machines... the slightest whiff of gunpowder overlaid with the sharp metallic scent of blood, so heavy it almost has a taste on the tongue… even as it cools to a tacky film on the tips of trembling and numb fingers.  
>  Flesh and blood.  
>  Muscle and bone.  
>  A vessel, transport; nothing more.  
>  Yet… Precious. Unique. Remarkable…  
>  Fragile. Irreplaceable.  
>  John.  
>  _Stop_  
> 

Something is emerging from the darkest depths of his being. Deeper and more foundational than his bones, even than the very marrow inside them. It is so elemental it is bound within the substance of him. Down further than atoms or molecules or superstrings or the yet undiscovered and unfathomable material that composes the very fabric of everything. There, in his very essence, is John Watson, pulling at him. 

Sherlock lets his eyes drift open. He feels strangely peaceful and settled in his skin now. He picks up the tray of medical supplies. __

 _“Into battle,”_ he mutters quietly, pulling back his shoulders and lifting his chin slightly.

John drums his fingers impatiently against the tub, his nerves building. He is accustomed to being the doctor not the patient and he definitely is not accustomed to having Sherlock’s hands on his bare body as he is soon to experience. He grasps for something to calm his nerves and so channels all the uncertainty and anxiety into anger. 

“Yeah, well if you hadn’t gotten us practically thrown out of the hospital,” John shouts, his voice trailing off quickly when he lifts his head and his eyes fix on Sherlock in the doorway. His head jerks back a little, as if physically struck. His jaw immediately clamps down as his wide eyes roam over the tall, slender man with a pair of pajama bottoms slung low across his bony hips as his only visible article of clothing. His leanly muscled chest is rising and falling at an unnatural pace, as if he ran three blocks to get there, and his eyes are round and ablaze with an inner light. He holds a small, silver tray with medical supplies on it and the light reflecting off its surface plays across the angles of his face and sharp planes of his chest emphasizing his other worldly appearance. Johns swallows roughly around a sudden tightness in his chest.

Sherlock wavers; rocking slightly on the balls of his feet. John is leaning forward, his sharp eyes traveling over every inch of exposed flesh with a heat that makes him feel weak. He had faced a great many things without the smallest twinge of fear, but standing there as near naked as he has ever willingly been with another person, intent on seeking physical intimacy, strikes at something deeper and rawer than all those other situations. The potential for devastating rejection has not been so potent for years. The clarity he'd had standing in the hall is slipping, fizzling away into its base particles and scattering.

Facing this level of vulnerability and his own potential shortcomings has always been too overwhelming and terrifying to even consider. Or at least it always had been until the moment he realized invulnerability came with the cost of _losing John._ He had already made that mistake once, he did not intend to repeat it. 

_’John. Just John,’_ he reminds himself forcing his body to still and stay rooted to the floor.

“Zero,” Sherlock blurts.

“Zero?” John repeats in a tight voice. He cocks his head to the side and squints at his friend. His brow furrows as he takes in the subtle signs of nervousness in the way Sherlock holds himself. The rare anxious mannerisms that means he is working hard to stave off a growing panic. 

John blinks three times and swallows down his own discomfort roughly before straightening his spine and narrowing his eyes on a place just above Sherlock’s right shoulder. He forces his hands to relax their vice-like grip around the edge of the tub that is making his knuckles white and his fingers ache. Then he wills the rest of his body to follow suit, relaxing into a calm attentiveness.

“Oh, zero,” John says when he finally feels under appropriate control again. He remembers the daily countdown of inquires from Christmas and blushes a little, his system flooding with warmth at the little game. He gingerly touches at the bandaged gunshot wound on his chest with his left hand. “Zero isn't actually-”

“Mathematically speaking zero absolutely _is_ both a number _and_ numerical digit. It is a rather important one at that,” Sherlock says effectively intercepting and deflecting John's (anticipated) argument as he places the tray of medical supplies on the lid of the closed toilet. He stands there in the doorway fidgeting; hands flexing at his side, shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot. 

“Ok. yeah.” John concedes with a grin, keeping his eyes resolutely on his companion’s face. “But, Christmas was a week ago and... as I recall the agreement was _twelve_ facts, and twelve is what you got.”

“You can't count the clarinet… _thing,_ ” Sherlock says waving his hand dismissively. The disdain for John’s first choice of information for disclosure is obvious in the downturn of his lips and the exaggerated crinkle of his nose. 

John chuckles, looking his friend over a moment. The ex-soldier is wearing that cautious expression he usually has when determining his willingness to enter a situation with inherent risks. Sherlock tries to keep his breathing steady. 

“Alright,” John leans forward a bit looking up at his tall, dark haired companion with a small smile. “Zero it is.” Sherlock heaves a sigh. He hesitates for a moment, then draws himself up straight, all his muscles tensed. His heart is pounding and his respiration is not within normal parameters, but he clings to the knowledge that there is simply nowhere that he truly feels a sense of complete acceptance, joy, peace and belonging except those moments when John is pressed to him and the rest of the world falls away. If he wants _that_ back he must risk _this._

“Zero. What can I do to best please you?” He forces out somewhat aggressively. John blinks, startled. 

“Sorry, _what?”_

Sherlock pauses, putting noticeable effort into relaxing himself as he stares at John. When he starts again his voice is much calmer and he annunciates each word. “How. Can I. Best. Please. You?” 

In two strides Sherlock traverses the length of the bathroom to drop to his knees on the floor at John's feet. He looks up at the other man from beneath his dark lashes and lets his voice drift lower and rawer, into suggestive territory. “John?” 

“Well _this_ is a step in the right direction,” The doctor remarks trying for a joke but it comes out too breathy. His eyes rove over the pale flesh before him; the appealing mix of hard and soft sweeping planes and angles. Those large blue-gray eyes are softer and more open than he can recall ever seeing them before and it is startling how deeply they cut into him. 

There is nothing about the man before him that isn’t inherently remarkable; confusing, astounding and utterly unpredictable. John bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to try to force back the swell of emotion and the attraction he feels towards his friend. He wants to reach out and touch him but he reminds himself of his resolve to accept things _as they are._ Sherlock doesn't do _that_ and it _is_ fine.

He looks up at the cracked plaster ceiling for a breath before he brings his eyes back down; calmer, more controlled and slightly closed off. He wets his lips with an unconscious flick of his tongue and clears his throat. 

“What are we even talking about here, Sherlock?” 

That whole thin frame lifts and shifts with a deep breath, muscles gliding beneath skin, before Sherlock settles with new poise and confidence. His eyes have a spark of heat in them and he seems bullish, slipping into the same cocksure veneer he puts on when the criminal has a gun to his head; the one John always finds slightly irritating because of how unjustified and reckless it typically proves to be.

“Christmas day I asked you what you wanted most in the world,” Sherlock pauses, his eyes burning into John.

“Right.” John nods.

“Your body clearly indicated that - what you wanted was - it was _me_... in some sort of... physical capacity.” Sherlock pauses for a moment then pushes up a little on his knees so he is closer to John. He feels the heaviness in the air now, a sedating pressure in his chest from John being so close. He counts the intervals of his companion's breaths and then tries to determine if the dilatation of his pupils is a matter of arousal or the angle of the face falling further in shadow requiring the pupil to open to seek more light.

“How can I best please you, John,” he restates firmly.

John leans back to gain some distance. He rubs the back of his neck. Sherlock's deduction was _true,_ but not the _whole truth._

He hadn't intended to pressure his friend, he really hadn't. He didn't need or expect anything more than their comfortable companionship... but that night he had just recently given himself over to accepting his feelings for his friend and, with the buzz of alcohol in his veins making his judgement somewhat impaired, he had wanted Sherlock to know that things had changed - _he_ had changed. 

_I'm here if you want me._

“Christ, Sherlock. Christmas day I was just-”

“Telling the truth, as you did for the 11 days prior and now I am asking you one more question,” Sherlock says impatiently. 

John's lips purse and shift to the side. He looks over his companion thoughtfully. 

“Ok,” John says slowly. “And you are proposing - _what?_ To fulfill whatever desire that would _best please_ me?” He drawls slowly, almost challengingly as he tries to follow Sherlock’s reasoning. He slides forward, his knees bracketing that lean frame, but not touching, his hands gripping the tops of his thighs. He looks down into the younger man’s eyes watching them shift from a pale silver blue to a deep cerulean blue-green as the dark wells of his pupils overtake them. 

Sherlock breathes in and glances down at himself. He is pleased that the quakes he feels liquefying his insides are not outwardly visible, but his body is obviously showing an interest in his proximity to John. He lifts his eyes back up to stare at John’s hands on his knees, waiting for them to move towards him. 

The doctor’s hands do not shift on his knee. They stay perfectly still and his head tips slightly more into the light. Sherlock glances up and his heart flutters at the heat in the ex-soldier’s stare and the proximity of his body to his own. A little shiver of cold uncertainty over his ability to handle the intensity of John's physical intimacy races up his spine. A queasy shifting feeling inside him and a swirling sensation in his head makes him sink back a little. 

“Technically I have not proposed anything, John. I have simply asked you a question,” he says quieter, his voice more breath than tone.

“Right,” John tips his head to the side and studies him skeptically, leaning back a little. He can’t tell where this is heading. Sherlock seems like he wants _something_ but he keeps backing away and this time John can’t help because he hasn’t the faintest idea what he really wants. He dare not assume that this is what it seems to be and risk Sherlock retreating so thoroughly as he had when John had _blanketed_ him. 

“Why?” John presses.

Sherlock feels the loss in John’s body retreating and he pushes up again, but John does not lean back in. He waits calmly.

“Because it is the one thing you want most in the world and I…” Sherlock’s eyes drop to the floor a moment and his lips flex as embarrassment skates across his expression before he quickly blanks it. 

There are words he wants to say, small but powerful words, however he knows them to be feeble, inadequate for the truth and impossibly abstract. His insides squirm and he feels something working its way up into his chest towards his lungs, so he swallows them, shoves it all down and grabs for something safer. 

“I didn't get you anything for Christmas,” he finishes quickly as he looks up at John, head tilted slightly to the side and a timid smile on his lips. John pauses a moment and then bursts into laughter, leaning further back.

“You. Are. _Ridiculous,_ ” He gazes down his body at the man crouched between his knees, his eyes sparkling with amusement. He runs a hand through his golden hair, leaving it bristling.

Sherlock closes his eyes against the feeling of lightheadedness. That smile, so genuinely fond and devoted, along with that spark of joy in his dark blue eyes, ignites an ember in his stomach. Sherlock digs his fingers into the tops of his thighs to resist reaching out to touch him.

“Alright,” John says as he shakes his head, looking off to the side to hide the amused expression he knows is on his face over how Sherlock, always one for the dramatic, can't just ask him what he might like for a belated Christmas gift but instead manages to make it sound like a bloody proposition.

“No...Yeah... You can get me a new jumper or a new book or something.” He pulls his mind back to the task at hand and lets his eyes rest on the medical supplies on the tray, scanning it for everything needed. 

“Come on, then. Let’s get this over with,” he says gesturing at his bandaged wound and then to the tray with the gauze, tape and antiseptic. Sherlock's mouth tightens and his eyes narrow, frustration prickling his insides. 

“Are you going to answer the question, John?”

John tips his head. He thought he _had_ answered the question. “You can best please me by changing my bandage,” he snarks with a shrug. 

A darkness slips over Sherlock’s expression as he goes perfectly still. He hadn't really contemplated a move beyond this move. He had assumed once he solicited from John some direction in how to please him physically he would be able to use observation, his deduction skills and the application of a bit of abstract knowledge from his research to make a satisfactory effort at their first act of physical intimacy. However, _once again_ his companion is being painfully recalcitrant. 

_It is the bloody clarinet data all over again._

His gaze burns into John with impatience and irritation.

“Ok,” John says slowly as he tips his chin down, his eyes clouding with confusion and uncertainty. His hands come up, palms out, in a placating gesture. He sits silent and thoughtful for a moment trying to figure out what exactly he'd missed. “I’ll think about it - what you can do, Sherlock,” he says slowly.

“When can I expect an answer, John?” Sherlock persists in a stilted voice even as he sinks back and moves the tray to the floor beside himself.

“Don’t know... Later tonight... Before I go to bed?” Sherlock nods his head slowly, solemnly, as he rips the fresh gauze free of the packaging. He cannot count this a success, but it has not yet proved a complete failure. 

He doesn’t understand. _He hates not understanding._ He thought John would eagerly embrace the opportunity for physical intimacy. The defined parameters seemed a way to put all parties more at ease; _it had worked for the blanket after all_. He contemplates how he had miscalculated once again as he leans in close to John. Taking a deep breath he pushes up on his knees to begin to care for his wound.

He runs his fingers over the bandage on his friend’s chest, recalling how damp with blood the fabric of the the makeshift bandage had felt on that night in the warehouse. There is an ache in his chest like something tearing loose, and he feels certain it is the part connected to John longing for merging. He leans down and begins to peel away the old bandage.

John tenses as that dark fluff of curls brushes against his chest when Sherlock leans in close. Those fingertips begin brushing softly, incidentally against the sensitized skin of his chest as Sherlock works the bandage off. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth as warm breath makes the tiny hairs across his right shoulder stand on end. He tries desperately to find something to distract himself and deter his body's growing desire. _Churchill. Margaret Thatcher. Infected cyst. Gangrene. Whatever Sherlock left in the crisper last week. Anderson. Perforated bowel._

Sherlock takes this moment when John’s eyes are pressed closed to study him. He hasn’t been able to do so since their time on the couch and then John had been fully clothed. He runs his eyes over the strong shoulders, broader than his own and more packed with muscles. They are tensed now, the trapezius muscle standing out in high definition. The warm color of his skin is so appealing in contrast to Sherlock's own naturally paler and cooler shade. He quietly examines the gnarled scar on the ex-soldier’s left shoulder, the evidence of his former life. Then lets his gaze drift to his strong jaw that is clenched tight, the muscles on his neck are standing out. It’s not quite anger, but not quite pain either. Definite strain, though. His lips are moving slightly, he seems to be muttering something repeatedly, too faint to hear.

John clears his throat. He can’t feel Sherlock working on his wound anymore but he can hear him breathing so he knows he must still be there. He can feel the heat radiating off that body. “All right there?” he asks in a tight voice.

“Mmmm… Just checking for signs of infection,” Sherlock lies, his face flushing slightly with heat, as he reaches for the bottle of cleaning alcohol. He presses the antiseptic wipe to the wound.

John tries to relax, bowing his head slightly and hoping the discomfort he must be clearly showing appears to be because of pain rather than his efforts at self-control. He breathes roughly through the agonizing, nauseating pain, gritting his teeth and inhaling the sharp scent of antiseptic as Sherlock cleans his wound. His mind wanders to the time Sherlock pulled him down onto the couch and the sensation of sinking into that warmth. They just seemed to fit together like corresponding puzzle pieces and John had never felt so at peace. He tries to shut out the pain and focus on that.

John snaps back to the present when a thoughtful hum vibrates through the air of the too quiet bathroom and he feels a tentative touch to the center of his chest. He opens his eyes, looking down at the top of Sherlock's curly brown head, crouched at chest level and turned slightly to the side. A thin, elegant finger is gathering in the texture of the curly, sandy blond hairs on John's chest. John clears his throat. Sherlock quickly retracts his hand turning away to reach for the gauze tape.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“No, it's - it's _fine._ ” John says, forcing back his discomfort to offer a smile.

“It is?” Sherlock's freezes, tipping his head to the side, his narrowed eyes sliding up to John’s face and searching it. 

John's laugh is higher than normal and tight. He bites back what he wants to say _‘Oh, god, yes!’_ and instead feels quite relieved at how even his voice is as he says, “Yeah, It’s - _pleasant._ ” 

Sherlock’s eyes brighten slightly. And the finger returns to tentatively curl through the fine brown hairs clustered over John’s sternum, exploring their coarse texture and twisting then unwinding them individually around a long, elegant finger. 

That simple touch sends such electricity through Sherlock's body. He wants more. He contemplates all the times he has attempted to make a move on John. There was the alley where he had wanted to kiss John, there was the sheet incident, the weighted blanket incidents, and he had all but offered himself up on a platter just now, but still it always seems to go awry as John moves in oddly tangential and unpredictable directions. If this were an experiment Sherlock would assume there was an unknown variable causing results to skew. 

An image floats into his mind’s eye; two perfectly paired particles in an elegant dance of balance. Bound inextricably in a strange correlation requiring entanglement. The unusual connectedness is an inescapable feature of their coexistence.

Sherlock sees it now; the dance they have been caught in. Move and mirror or countermove. Sliding sideways and wondering why John goes the opposite direction in countermove. Retreating then watching John retreat in mirror move. They can't help but move in relation to one another, so if he wants John to come close he has to move close with clear intent, he can't come at it sideways or retreat and expect John to break pattern. He needs to move towards John with clear intent and John will draw closer in mirror move.

“Oh,” Sherlock gasps with surprise and delight in his voice. His hand stops and flattens on John's chest.

“What?” John asks, concerned. He looks down at the hand pressed to his chest, then up at Sherlock’s face.

“Yes,” Sherlock says quietly after a moment.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes to your proposal,” Sherlock says staring at John’s lips. John narrows his eyes, looking off to the right and searching his memory for some ‘proposal’ he’d made to Sherlock.

He wonders how drugged up he had been while in hospital. He thinks he can recall everything; the passing out underneath a _Sherlock blanket_ , the waking up to Sherlock arguing with Lestrade then passing out again. Then he’d awoken in the hospital, already sewn up, hooked up to a slow morphine drip. 

The pain really wasn’t that bad, nothing like his shoulder had been, so he’d never had a whole lot of morphine… _yet_... it was possible that there were some half-conscious moments where he’d let his feelings be known. He lowers his head letting out a long breath. 

_Had he really proposed to Sherlock? Christ that is pathetic…_

His head snaps up and his eyes widen in surprise. 

“Wait… _What?_... You’re _accepting_ my proposal?” John blurts. He feels everything inside him suddenly vibrating like a struck tuning fork. 

“Yes, John,” Sherlock says flatly. John blinks and blinks some more. 

Well, it's not as if he hasn't thought about it; about how their life together is everything he never knew he wanted. With or without the physical intimacy, they have a wonderful, if unusual, domestic arrangement that he never wishes to end. And if Sherlock wants to make that official, John will gladly do so. He will write it in blood, if need be. 

He has never considered Sherlock to feel even remotely similar and could only imagine what sort of derisive thoughts he had on marriage in general. He is humbled by the potential of this unimaginable, mind-blowing, anomaly of a genius giving over so much to himself, an ordinary, unpolished, broken ex-soldier. 

“Are you sure, Sherlock. That's… that's _big_. Are you ready for _that_ …” 

Sherlock sighs. It was a very poignant question. He really doesn't know, with complete certainty, that he is ready for whatever John’s proposal entails but he knows he wants and trusts John. He reaches out and puts a tentative hand on John’s thigh. 

“Whether I am ready or not, you've been more than fair,” Sherlock says with a slightly amused smile. John tilts his head in puzzlement; not missing the reference but failing to understand what Sherlock means. 

Sherlock looks up at John, and his gaze is drawn to John's lips. The sensory memory of those lips on his replays on all his nerves again. He blinks several times, then shakes himself, mind stuttering back online. He knows exactly what he wants.

“Men of action, John... Lies do not become us… So I will endeavor to be as truthful as possible.” Sherlock takes a deep breath. Closing his eyes a moment to try to organize his thoughts but they are inelegant in their flaws and tangled chaos. 

"I did think you were killing me,” Sherlock says quietly. He takes another deep breath and then the words are flowing from him so quickly that John can barely keep up. “It wasn't a panic attack. Or not _only_ a panic attack. The sensory feedback was obviously askew, as I lack both a basis of comparison and my transport tends to be prone to acts of betrayal in your presence, but my perception of the sensation was that it was something akin to an octopus. Logically, of course, it had to be some sort of parasitic lifeform or an infestation of parasites, of which there are many… which is… irrelevant… in any case it crushed my insides but then you were on top of me… and your lips...” 

Sherlock pauses. “It wouldn't be much different in _practice,_ but it is, so far as I am aware, vastly so in _intent_. " John looks at him, mouth agape and eyes blank with confusion. He snaps his mouth shut and shakes his head.

"Yeah... Lost me round about the _octopus_... I have no idea what we are talking about, Sherlock." 

Sherlock sighs heavily and looks at the floor. "I'm inadequately skilled for this task," he mutters bitterly. He shifts uncomfortably and fidgets with the medical supplies.

"I am apparently incompetent at many things in this area,” He waves a hand in frustration. “But I _am_ a quick learner." Green-blue eyes fix on John with a fierce edge. "If you were to initiate and demonstrate appropriate technique, I am certain I could employ an inductive methodology to master the needed skills and excel quickly in creating a pleasurable experience."

" _Pleasure_ \- Sorry. What do you want me to do?" John's eyes have gone wider at that word and its implications. He is suddenly aware of his heart beating rapidly.

"You said all I had to say was please," Sherlock huffs impatiently.

"Yeah. Ok."

“I am requesting… _please_ … that we touch lightly... or press gently together... the flesh that surrounds the oral aperture.” Sherlock forces out with difficulty. He fidgets with his hands, waiting. 

“Oral aperture,” John says with a slightly amused expression. “You're talking about the lips? You want me to... _kiss you_?”

Sherlock shifts uneasily on his knees. “You are a doctor, I thought you might appreciate some degree of... specificity.” 

John looks away, stunned. This evening certainly is _full_ of surprises.

“Are you sure, Sherlock? I mean… we don't _have to_ …”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies impatiently, his curly hair bouncing with his emphatic nod. 

“Alright…” John says slowly. “Have you ever-?” Embarrassment flickers across Sherlock’s face as he gives a tight shake of his head back and forth.

“However,” Sherlock interjects brightly to head off the apprehension taking over John’s features “I have heard it is a simple formula; affection times purity times intensity times duration... I excel at formulas, John,” he smirks. 

“Except for the time you nearly burnt down the flat,” John points out.

“I may be a little lacking in… _practical experience_ in this area... but I do believe that burning down the flat is an unlikely outcome in this particular scenario, John,” Sherlock says with a grin and an arched eyebrow.

John chuckles and then looks overcome, all that affection and desire he usually clamps down on before it can fully make it to the surface, rushes forward like the sun bursting over the horizon. 

Sherlock’s breath catches and they are being drawn together; perfectly paired particles held in a state of quantum entanglement propelled by the overwhelming forces of attraction. 

Sherlock is searching John's approaching face, struggling to take in and catalog all of the sensory input; expression soft and open, eyes alight with heat, pupils dilating with attraction, expression relaxed but certain. 

He finds himself unexpectedly suspended; his mind grinding to a halt at the fascinating discovery that there are incongruous and breathtakingly resplendent brown and gold flecks set against the deep blue of John's irises. He struggles to process how John can be hiding the beauty of the chemical reaction of zinc reacting to copper sulphate in what always seemed to be simple, cobalt blue eyes.

Then suddenly thinner, slightly rough lips are dipping in, pressing so soft and sure, thrusting against his own with tiny, almost innocent, sips and Sherlock's eyes slide closed. The familiar scent of John envelopes him and those perfect hands are against his cheek and jaw, clutching him like something precious. Little gusts of warm and wet breath caress his mouth and it is not unlike the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation John provided during his panic attack. That is grounding in how familiar it is and Sherlock flexes his lips; testing the pressure, trying to replicate John's movements. In response, a soft moan rumbles in John’s throat and it is dizzying in how intoxicating it feels vibrating across their joined lips.

One strong hand slides from his cheek to neck dragging in its wake goosebumps prickling up across the flesh before it slides up into his hair, intertwining through the curls there at the base of his skull. Shimmering sparks of electricity shoot over Sherlock's scalp and down the length of his spine, electrifying his whole body.

His heart lurches; part fear and part exhilaration. His pulse beats faster and his body throbs painfully in something resembling a deep, hollowed-out pang of hunger. It's _so much_ but he realizes abruptly he wants - _needs_ \- more. A noise escapes his chest, something between a whimper and a moan.

John angles his head and the soft press of lips slides into something more insistent with a swift gradation of intensity that makes Sherlock cling to him as the only solid thing in a swirling, fluctuating world. His fingers wrap around the ex-soldier’s biceps, digging into flesh and muscle.

Encouraging sweeps of John’s lips sear across his senses, turning his blood to lava. The room; its walls and floor - everything fades to nothingness. All the other sounds of the world go silent, there is only the hurricane loud roar of his own heart in his ears. 

John's other arm closes firmly around his waist; unyielding steel beneath malleable flesh; steadying him and clasping him protectively. It pulls him closer so they are chest to chest and he feels the heartbeat encased beneath fragile flesh, strong muscle and sturdy bones. It is so powerful that his own heart is synchronizing to its rhythm. 

John's insistent mouth is parting his shaking lips, sending spikes of fire and ice shivering along his nerves. He is sinking, surrendering in body and mind to the warmth and the surging tide of sensations crashing over him, flooding his brain and leaving him limp. He is melting into John; everything inside him is quaking shattering and shaking itself to pieces even as he goes formless and pliant, only held together by John's embrace and the press of their lips. 

“John,” he gasps against John's parted lips as a tongue darts out to taste at the seam of his mouth. His voice is raspy and full of need; foreign to his own ears and he's not sure if it's a plea for mercy or for John to keep going, never stop, until there is nothing but utter devastation. 

“Stay with me, Sherlock,” John murmurs against his lips, pulling back a little to those soft, almost innocent presses. “It’s Ok. I’ve got you.” Sherlock nods, his lips slipping off John's with the motion of his head, brushing against the rough stubble of his dimpled chin. The change of texture pulls him closer to the surface.

“It's just...”

“Yes, I know,” John says intensely and his other arm slips around Sherlock pulling him closer. He ducks his head, burying his face against the sinewy shoulder. He is shaking, barely able to constrain the need to hold so tight that it is crushing.

Sherlock sags back against the strong arms holding him together. His body feels like jelly; boneless; arms hanging useless at his sides while his nerves crackle and jangle from the lingering input.

“I'm sorry, love,” John whispers against his collarbone. “Was that too much... too fast?”

“It's…” Sherlock takes a slow shaky breath, shaking his head back and forth and trying to disconnect from his body enough to sort his thoughts. “Can we… perhaps… lay down?” Sherlock asks tentatively. John freezes, his breath catching his chest. “It’s just… I feel more… grounded… when you are on top of me.” 

John's eyes flutter closed and he presses his lips to Sherlock’s shoulder. He wants to say it won't work for him; that lying on Sherlock and kissing him is likely to require colossal amounts of restraint he can't promise, but then he feels the anxiety in Sherlock's breathing and his stuttering heart. The army calm slips over him. Sherlock needs him to do this and he will always do what Sherlock needs of him, no matter how difficult. 

“As you wish,” he says calmly standing up and pulling Sherlock to his feet with him, an affectionate and reassuring smile on his face. Sherlock wobbles and stares at him with those large blinking eyes. John grins.

“Isn't this familiar,” John chuckles ruefully. He pulls Sherlock’s arm over his shoulder and wraps his arm behind Sherlock's back, grabbing him by the far hip and navigating him out of the bathroom and into the hall.

Sherlock rests his head on John's shoulder and breathes deeply as they make their way to the couch. He is flawed, imperfect and wired all wrong but somehow John loves and accepts him anyways.

“I hope you know what you are doing, John,” Sherlock sighs as John turns him. His expression is naked as he looks into John's eyes. John blinks back at him, fighting back the burning.

“Well, I've not heard any complaints,” he smirks, with a strained laugh.

“No. I wasn't talking about _that._ That was quite…” Sherlock realizes he lacks a proper descriptor for the quality and intensity of John's physical intimacy thus far. At the risk of being lost inside his own mind in an attempt to define it, he instead waves it away.

“I mean... you are apparently equivalent to a powerful drug to me, John, and... I have been known to have a certain _proclivity_ towards... _addiction_.”

John smiles playfully. He lowers Sherlock gently to the couch with a hand behind his head and moves to hover himself over the body stretched on the couch. “I'm not scared, Sherlock,” he says flatly. The detective studies him carefully. 

“No… No, you’re not,” he says surprised. He feels the warmth as the doctor sinks down onto him, his bare chest rising and falling in time with his own. The weight and the pressure making everything in him go calm and quiet. The desire swelling and reaching out to connect with John; to join them until they are one. 

John nestles his face into the curls at the base of his neck, relaxing and sinking deeper into the body below. He lets his lips brush against Sherlock's ear and is surprised when he feels that body beneath him arching up into him with a low and needy moan. 

Sherlock’s voice growls close to his ear, “Then I won’t be either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >  
>> 
>> _"...You can't cheat real connection. It's built up slowly. It's about trust and time."[-Brene Brown](https://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability?language=en)_  
> 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the _slow build up_ and the final real _connection._  
>  Bonus if you can count all the Princess Bride references!  
>  **As always, I welcome you feedback in the form of comments and Kudos!**

**Author's Note:**

>  **Your comments and Kudos are so appreciated!**  
>  I was inspired to write a Sherlock confession moment.  
> I've read some great fanfic stories out there that have a subtext that Sherlock has only experienced sex for drugs or while on drugs (back when he was an addict), hence his seeming lack of experience/interest. I was inspired to create a pivotal moment for Sherlock to start thinking about sex differently and John to have some insight into why Sherlock is the way he is.
> 
> From there, this fic grew legs and just got up and ran away with me. Mainly because some **great readers like you** begged me to continue and I couldn't say no.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Vessel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7291093) by [Breath4Soul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul)




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